moss clings to branches like whispers feather hope
thirty, forty feet up?
far enough to cramp the neck
yellow-green & tinged with blue
airy & light in the warming breeze
teasing about the season
just now gone
delicious to the eye
but to the skin gives a scratch
nothing soft or silly about it
as its frail wispiness might suggest
sturdy, rugged stuff
evolved, went one way,
then another, which improved its chances
like a woman
nice to be reminded things
aren’t always as they seem, even if
truth at first disappoints
Photo by Daniel Ruyter on Unsplash
