Moss

Under the canopy of a giant mushroom
Gazing out across the vast plains of sporophytes
In the distance, the Irish Moss is in full bloom
And I hear the faint trickle song of water sprites

I am not at all concerned about the black ants
That are scouting ever nearer my location
Because I have spotted a Phidippus audax 
With plans to liquefy my guts as libation

Black with white hairs
Chelicerae electric blue
And daring, audacious eyes

Beautiful, terrible
But before it can jump
The ants run it off and I hide
…

Considering Blake’s omens, his simple portents
To ignorance, humility, and perspective
I enjoy looking at life through many a lens
Emmit’s or eagle’s, for example, subjective


(Poetry Scales 68)