“Moss,” a poem by Michael Sandler

Photo by Brian Michael Barbeito

It needs humidity, dampness of rain

or sweat—the residue of troubled dreams,

the ones that wake you shivering and don’t

quite dissipate, but populate the morning:

I’m at the wheel of my old Chevy when

I notice her waiting in the rain to cross,

a youngish woman still as I was when

I’d over-stepped, although it seemed invited.

Because the light’s so dim and it’s a dream

I could ignore her. Yet I want to make

connection and try catching her glance. I rap

on the window till the glass shatters and severs

her from a chorus of pedestrians.

Interpretations may seem obvious,

although atonement is too much to ask

and dreams may be a proxy for remorse.

Part of a self endures in shadowed places.

Perhaps that’s why I seek an openness,

inhaling light, holding new scents in my arms,

listening for gestures carried by the wind.

Just yesterday I strolled the arboretum

and picked crocuses. Their infant yellows seized

my hopelessness and even gave sly comfort,  

despite premonitions that these harbingers

will, in days, brown and wither. Guilt requires

just a drop of intimation to revert.

Yet I resolve to get on with my day

as she looks up, refusing to wave back.