Moss and Leaves

Here, beneath the high Spanish moss, I stop.

I ask the wind

that unseen, shifting breath

to sweep through the dry, scattered leaves of my mind,

settling them quietly at the base of the ancient oak.

I turn my face upward to the breaking clouds,

asking the sun to pour down through the canopy,

bathing the cold earth in an extravagant, unending light.

🍃

Perhaps I’m asking for too much.