This entry is part 9 of 37 in the series Bridge to Nowhere: poems at mid-life


On muggy summer nights
without air conditioning

it’s so hard to find just
the right, light blanket.

I want something like the moss
bordering a stony path,

blurry verge of all that flourishes
without our say-so,

a fresh fuzz so minute
one forgets that it is after all

made up of individuals,
each of which will in time

sprout green feathers
of dubious utility, learn

to save & spend slowly
in a time of drought

& wait for its own turn
in the common bed.


Just a reminder that submissions for the next issue of qarrtsiluni, The Crowd, must be in by Wednesday.

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0 Replies to “Blanket”

    1. Glad that worked for you, and I assure you any MJ echoes in the title were unintended. This is a good example of how being poorly educated in pop culture as I am can be a real handicap for a poet.

    1. Thanks. Just this morning I noticed to my delight that a good-sized patch of moss has appeared in my dooryard garden. I’m going to do everything I can to help it spread. Might as well put all that damp weather to good use.

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