Replanting

The moss was rich, green, soft,
Compactable in hand,
Scooped from the woods between

The sentimental lawns
Of florilegia,
Just the thing for a path

Kind enough to bare feet,
But you didn’t collect
It for reasons like that—

You imagined bare hands
Shaping moss in the rain,
A sort of a poppit

With a sort of a face,
With nothing holding it
Together or in place.