Today I walked in the woods, Grandpa

not too far from where you and Gramma had the farm.

The path was moist, mulched with red leaves

and sweet smelling earth.

 A wide variety of mosses were sprouting,

clinging to dead curled up tree limbs.

Fallen logs were covered in lime green short haired moss.

I used to pick it and make gardens in shoeboxes.

Purple and browns in the tree trunks that swayed together

to form an arch where threads of sage coloured moss hung down

and the frail sun scattered droplets of light,

Hawthorn berries, rich crimson bleeding off the thorny branches

knit so tightly together     and I thought of you, Grandpa

and remembered your calloused hands,

stained crimson and deep purple from picking summer blackberries.