Red moss, crimson as blood of a slaughtered calf,
I knew I had seen it before but could not recall
where or when. Like seeing a landscape painting
knowing I had been there before, long time ago.
In the valley of cobblers, children ran barefoot on
summer grass and they scented of wild flowers
unpasteurized milk and healthy, innocent laughter.
I know this to be true but don’t know why?
I think of reindeers, would they eat red moss used
as they are to the grey variety? Sun keeps shining
like Spanish blood orange with a wicked cold.
The good earth is dry, waits for rain…plenty of it.
The red moss is a forgotten love story and perhaps
if I sit still long enough and wait, I will remember it.
