Moss

by Cynthia Betsinger

So green, the sweet dewy pelt
It blankets the old oak’s trunk
Like velvety remnants of holiday fabric.

Gently, slowly, it crawls in the shadows
Of the trees of the forest
The delicate divan of the fairies in the wood.

Awakened in the dawn, sprites’ supple wings unfold
And stretch toward the sun
As they dance in the air.

The bluebells beckon that they shall sing
And rings of mushrooms, their evening call
‘Til night, when they cradle in moss’s embrace.