A green sky underfoot:
the skin of moss
holds the footprints of
star-footed birds.
With moss-fingers, with
filigree they line
their nests in the
forks of the trees.
All around, the apples
are falling, the leaves
snap, the sun moves
away from the earth.
Only the moss stays,
decently covers the
roots of things, itself
rooted in silence:
rocks coming alive
underfoot, rain no
man heard fall. Moss,
stand up for us,
the small birds and
the great sun. You know
our trees and apples,
our parrots and women’s eyes.
Keep us in your green
body, laid low
and still blossoming
under the snow.