How must it be

Moss
by Bruce Guernsey

How must it be
to be moss,
that slipcover of rocks? --
imagine,

greening in the dark,
longing for north,
the silence
of birds gone south.

How does moss do it,
all day
in a dank place
and never a cough? --

a wet dust
where light fails,
where the chisel
cut the name.