Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Guest Poet: Bruce Guernsey

I stumbled across Bruce Guernsey's poem "Moss" when a Facebook friend posted a link to "American Life in Poetry" page, Column 78 by United States Poet Laureate Ted Kooser

I shall never think of moss the same again. It is now and will forevermore be a sentient being. ~~GH


How must it be
to be moss,
that slipcover of rocks? —

greening in the dark,
longing for north,
the silence
of birds gone south.

How does moss do it,
all day
in a dank place
and never a cough? —

a wet dust
where light fails,
where the chisel
cut the name.

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