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 Moss in April

Snowdrops among the dead,
the fallen brown – I wait

for any sign and crave,
through duff and litterfall,

some distraction. Pursuing
the skip and swerve of creek,

the water’s tug toward lake,
I spot across the bank,

as if a neon patch
on outstretched wing, a burst

of color, bright sea-foam
awash, afloat beneath

a silver maple trunk.
My breath, to catch, to marvel:

lush cushion to contemplate,
bedding down rivulets

of rain, of tears. From Hypnos:
sleep here on plait-moss green.

Elise Paschen

Listen:

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