Some of my friends have been taking photos of moss every day and I have joined them on this quest. It's simple. When you go outside to get some fresh air and fill your senses from nature's offerings just find some moss. I confess I don't know much about moss, and I think that's part of its appeal. It's sensual delights comfort me and give the cognitive part of my brain a rest.
Even the labels I put on the photo files have the quality of found poetry:
finger moss
oak moss
birch moss
fairy moss
carpet
bee nest
nuzzle
mood
salmonberry petal
poplar bud
There are clues to the phenology: detritus from trees and shrubs fall on the moss and lay there like a seasonal gift.
I notice the company moss keeps: bark textures and the lichens they like to nudge up against. Cling to. Like I would like to cling to you. This pleasure now forbidden, seems even more desirable.
I notice how they change when it rains, drinking in the moisture and giving us the gift of their viridity.
Hidden, subtle, ubiquitous, and never boring, moss is a good companion. An introvert we can share out secrets with. The longing.
The moss would like you to admire its beauty. Daily.
You don't have to know its botany, chemistry or astronomy. It is there for you to love unconditionally.
It soaks up the harsh sounds of the city and mean gossip and transforms it into a gentle murmur of assurance.
It holds time for next time.
It doesn't need labels because it know that stickers and price tags are not far behind.
It is moss. It is.
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