Twice today I’ve seen moss
on paper. A migrant working word
that plucked down childhood memories.
Our massive oaks, stationed
as the permanent pair, sentinels of suburbia
dribbling Spanish moss and acorns
across the semi-circle drive, into the neighbors
hibiscus and crepe myrtles
Tourists love it, think it’s sensuous,
romantic, gorgeous
They dream of slow afternoons
on antebellum porches
with cut crystal glasses filled
with fresh lemonade or sweet sun-tea
the distant cicadas crackling and buzzing in the heat
Those molasses delusions
as simple and convelutated
as that stinky, drooping, mite-filled
free-loader plant choking our trees
People paid good money
to have that stuff
removed and burned.
I just climbed the maple tree instead.

-Michelle Knickerbocker