Who tickled the small tongues of the mosses
The lichens concentric mustard blooms?
Ran his hand along the wall to read the varying tufts
Spread out braille for a half blind man to read?
Who tore a tiny rooted being out of the crevice
To drop in my bag, a hushing finger to his lips?
What half-thrives on my kitchen sill
Among the things he loved and stroked?
Exquisite spare leaves, one or two pinking tendrils
I cannot touch such fragile supernatural fingers
Of course they are cold
Even the sun misses you.
Veronica Aldous All rights reserved 2016
Original art: Heart-h by Veronica Aldous