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