There is something about slowness,
That I lack. I move fast, mostly unnecessarily, Hovering, flitting, distracted by every moving thing. The light glances off a flickering leaf, and I’m off - Sure that I’ve missed something important already. But moss - moss takes its time. It is anchored to the earth, but rootless, Effortlessly chill in its slow crawl, Holding the soil and the rocks together. Moss is small, and easy to ignore, Secretly and silently sucking carbon from our sky Faster than all of our trees combined. it took me one day to write this poem, and I’ve been kicking myself for taking too much time. Poems don’t last - (at least not as long as lichen). The patient breathing of the green things, snuggled into the shoulder of our planet, Crawling slowly, imperceptibly, They are a celebration of smallness, And the permanence of slowness.
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October 2020
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