Silent Moss

A large, 

gnarled, 

growing presence as I sat ,

in the southern swamps.

Gray dripping sameness

of

my soul

sinking in muck.

Why cry to me, you hurricane...

or tropical storm of thoughts.

It’s not ok,

.. the oaks cried -  hush!

...but I couldn’t stop screaming
that I was sinking.

The Spanish moss

swayed ever so slightly

in the wind,

and never said a word.