Moss

Moss

The moss is creeping in from the woods

Slowly slinking underfoot

Taking over the yard

In a glacial coup

Steadily advancing

Through the seasons’ slow dancing

Each year a foot or two.

A slow infiltration

A leisurely invasion

An encroaching carpet casually claiming

The lawn

Where on dewy dawns the doe and her fawns

Graze in the glittering grass—

The moss will take over

A smothering lover

And the Day of the Deer will pass.

Are you killing the grass, Mrs. Moss?

Or have you arrived

Only where he has died

Under oak branches tall and wide

Where the sun doesn’t shine

But the clouds have cried

Their teardrops dripping from leaves and vines

That climb to the canopy

Stealing sunshine

From the grass?

What a loss.

He withers and fades

Balding and grey

But his loss is your gain, Mrs. Moss.

She creeps over the tree roots and rocks.

Spreads out her flesh

Beneath the bird’s nest

Now the bones of the earth have gone soft.

Come, let us walk hand in hand

Traipsing barefoot on the moss.

Every spring when trees gain new rings

And the red-breasted robin sings

The moss creeps outward

She gently devours

The occasional kickball field

The croquet court

The green summertime canvas

Where the little girl dances

And the boys chase each other back and forth.

She will claim the back yard first.

Stretching out from the trees

She’ll evict the bees

And the springtime buzz will go still.

The roar of the mower

Quiets sooner each summer

Until at last there will be no need.

She’ll stretch out her fingers

Her arms and her feelers

Beneath slide and swings

Over abandoned playthings

Lost and forgotten in the grass.

One day this present will be past.

The moss is creeping in from the woods

Slowly, steadily, surely, stealthily

Taking over the yard

—One day for good.

3/23/26