Moss on the North Side
As quietly as snow in deep woods
when a laden branch lets go,
and layer upon layer shifts down
until at last a rising wind
lifts the sifted flakes;
as quietly as moonlight
tips with midnight blue
the frost-encrusted limbs
of fir and spruce,
so does love leave,
almost traceless, no more than
a small print filling with snow.
Were there deer? Did one step here?
And was there someone who called
my name, touched me as I dreamed?
Under snow, a green whorl moves,
the coming spring no heart lets go,
like a fawn that cries for its mother,
out of view, moss on the north side
where she feeds.
Sue Scalf
http://members.aol.com/PoetScalf
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