Moss






 Moss

 

It was me.

 

I cut the tree in the woods you couldn’t hear falling;

you were too far away.

 

Closer now, I am calling to you – Can you hear?

 

I will wait for you, wait for your answering call,

wait amid these leaves and branches,

wait.

 

Roots may form, still I will wait.

Moss can grow, wait, I wait.

 

What will I hear?

 

 
Michael Griffith

 

Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind and spirit heal as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. Recent work appears online and in print in such outlets as The Blue Nib, Nostalgia Digest, NY Literary Magazine, and Poetry24. He resides near Princeton, NJ.  

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