Sometimes, I’d rather lay face down in the moss
Than pick the rose petals
& Pretend I’m full of purpose
I’d rather let the earth clean me
Feel myself slowly getting wet,
My undershirt getting ruined
My chest going deeper,
My back slackening,
Breathing in rich,
My eyes open.
The golden hour
Inches colder on the trees.
I am scrubbing moss off my clothes
I am turning on my phone’s flashlight.
The yellow bulb above the door reels me
And once inside I go immediately to the faucet.
That night I will watch the evening news
Nitpick a meal out of my ‘feed’
And use cross intonations when my mother says ‘your generation.’
I never thought it would come to this
When you look at me this way.
At day’s end
There will be so much to accomplish!
Please forgive my transgressions
If the back door slaps my shins
And I stumble through the night
Searching for moss.