Lichen… always with love for Terra
Not moss, but slower, a kind of lumpenproletariat
fungus comes in bunches no one keeps an eye on.
Grandmother ones, grandfathers, though where they’re at
they’re babies, half-birthed among a thousand tiny generations
And lacy they are, tightly massive as minimal forests,
but always more amazing the closer you look.
And holding the dew in billions of pinprick droplets,
they drink their fill and wait, the very name meaning to lick.