Moss by Ciaran Parkes

Moss

Hesitant, your voice
when I pick the phone up
but soon we’ve returned
to a remembered flow

from two years earlier.
I hold your warm
words against my face.
It’s winter outside.

As we talk I scrape
moss from the windowsill
and watch it falling, so much of it.
I hadn’t noticed it before.

by Ciaran Parkes

Editor’s Note: Spare lines and imagery effortlessly carry this poem’s central allegory of loss.

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