Bryophyta Bed & To a Silent Pine
Bryophyta Bed
This is my request—
to sleep, every night,
on a bed of fresh-cut moss,
cool and green and butter-soft.
Each night a different species—
there are enough to last
for many years, and then
in combinations after that.
This is my demand—
to dream of dragons
and dreary mountains
on mounds of sweet moss,
vibrant and delicate,
each and every night—
is this too much to ask?
To a Silent Pine
O pine, silent, lichen-crusted,
standing by Johnson Ferry Road,
do you hear the snarling engines
and smell the pumping gasoline?
Does your west side, bereft of limbs,
still feel where those branches once hung
gathering afternoon sunrays
before they were amputated?
Do your roots remember ground
before the conduits snaked through?
Do your fingers remember air
before the cell antennas rose?
Shaped by upheaval yet unmoved,
letting the interlopers pass,
your cracked and mottled trunk stood here
before it became a by-way.
Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta, GA, where he works as an engineer in fiber optic telecommunications. His poetry has been recently published or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, Boats Against the Current, Trampoline and Ekstasis.