Soil

Strike.
Fall.
Rain on hollow oak.
Moss grows quietly on the hillside.
Drawing moisture from the cool air.
The smell of decaying leaves fills nostrils.
I sit on the ancient stone precipice,
Staring out into the abyss,
Watching the stars move slowly across the dark sky.

12 thoughts on “Soil

  1. I can almost smell the soil from your poem. I “Moss grows quietly on the hillside”. I’m a big fan of moss and have a moss garden in my yard. My favorite place for observing moss, though is in the Great Smokey Mountains. Your poem took me back there, a place I think of as home. Thank you for the imagery that took me back to a special place.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hm. What a strange connection. One of perhaps my favorite and most inspirational locations is the Smokey mountains… Particularly the Blue Ridge. Much of my mental imagery comes from there. I am so very happy I was able to return you to your place of peace, and am honored just the same.

      Like

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