Scuffed Moss

It’s an interesting desire,
To want to protect something
That seems helpless, delicate—

To keep a thing from dying,
To not accidentally
Kill a thing easy to kill.

You see a chunk of green moss
Some hiker’s boot has scuffed up
And you know it’s good as dead,

Also a slow-growing thing,
Also under stress from drought,
And a surge of tenderness,

Almost regret, slips through you
As you bend to pick it up
And replace it on its rock,

Which is probably useless.
Also, it’s a plant. Also,
Even vegans would eat it.

Also, you eat many things,
Which have become you, which have
Contributed molecules

Now shaped into tender thoughts.
But you can’t help it. You feel
For this particular patch,

For some preprogrammed reason,
Having to do with children
Or childhood. Hope it comes back.