The Basement Moss by Patrick W. Marsh
The homeowners might wince knowing
a myth made an appearance
and incision along their cellar wall.
In a cut aimed at brick and soil.
A mud-light claw, glowing with emerald veins.
The capillaries of this lost
and forgotten forest king,
stirring for the only time this century.
Its antlers are bone sun spirals
above a body of ancient tree roots,
centered by an anvil chest of bark
with carved runes flickering jade.
A paragraph of poetic mysticism
no one could ever read.
Not that a human could learn it
they couldn’t dream this dialect.
The insects knew it, and they wiggled
to this godly sugar. Centipedes, ants, spiders,
and moths from their boxes, blocks, webs.
An audience in the evergreen glow of
this earthly deity with its sideways
shoulder peeking outwards.
The lead actor sneaking an
intermission glance at the grateful crowd.
The connection is brief.
It glides backwards through
the earthy portal,
leaving a melody
of moss along the rift.
Velvet flecks of verdant dreams
twinkled along the darkened slab
in bits of earthbound stardust.
Only to be sprayed and melted
by bleach from a plastic bottle
while the husband
went searching one evening
for some wine.