Let’s call this paint chip
4 p.m. green. Lichen, liverwort.
Moss burgeoning into topo folds
enters ankles, backs of knees, hip
creaks. Call this forest bathing,
a phytochemical car wash:
chamoised by cedar boughs,
scrubbed clean by bottlebrush.
This sprung needle floor
the closest to dance hall,
to church, I’ve found.
High in the canopy, kinglets
ring their tinny bells.
Bren Simmers. From If, When, Gaspereau Press, 2021.
Deirdre Kessler selects a poem a month by an Island poet for The Buzz.