Connie Jordan Green
A neighbor to lichen, but soft as a mushroom, grown from nothingness, from earth’s will, colors striated—cream to rust to tan to darker brown, lines of green and a hint of orange, the Grand Canyon in microcosm, edged with waves that ruffle like old lace, tea-stained trim on grandmother’s dress, a creek over mossy rocks. It smells of earth, the garden’s first turning, earthworms tunneling, humus at the bottom of an old bucket, bare toes poking a rotted log. It offers itself in layers, small gatherings above one long ridge. Along its back it has clung to a fallen limb, declared itself soul of the dying tree, negated the heft and weight of forest. It will shelter beetles, will feed browsing deer, their hunger next winter like our need to see again and again, our longing to go deep.
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