Ode to moss

The terrain beneath the spruces is emerald green,
plush, billowing clouds of mossy contours,
an interior echo of the blue sea’s ululations,
out of sight, through the trees.  
My morning dog walk on Sutton.
No kinder surface exists
for old feet and joints to tread.
What gives my island’s forest its air of mystery?
Moss-muted quiet,
accented by the hermit thrush’s haunting, echo-y song;
hummocks of old trees
enveloped by thick, lush moss,
a regenerative blanket enfolding
Earth’s old life into itself.
Sometimes I feel like I should whisper,
tiptoe through this sacred space
where life and death and rebirth
course through their millennial cycles,
unperturbed by politics or pandemics,
leaky roofs or leach fields.
Oh moss, lend us your placid tranquility.
Teach us what you know.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 326: 127 words, TOTAL = 53,034; 6,966 remaining