Moss on an ancient rock

that the peasant knows by heart

The tips of fingertips and eyes know its green speckled sprawl,

like the cheek’s skin knows warm drag and scratch

of green wool sweater

One of those things like the smell of the air

or the lift of the hillside

Intuitive changes in geography

Land shifts and plains lift to bluffs

Flat and brown crawl into speckled lush

And a thick mess sprawling, tightly woven beneath peasant’s feet of leaves

and vines and snapping branches pliant soft and strong

Effortless fibers weightless and sure about the shoulders bundle in

Peasant makes his way to the rock to pass it by and to know from so many years before

Climbs and rises to namaste hands at the mountain

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