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.

  1. Like it. It IS hard to find the perfect blanket and, yes,

    “I want something like the moss
    bordering a stony path”

    Said so well. You made me realize, that is what I want!

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