So this poem, like some number of poems in American poetry,
had its genesis in the Tuesday Science Times page.
There was this glorious article on July 29th, 2020
about mosses in the Mojave Desert and especially online,
the images were fantastic.
So this poem is called "Mosses."
And since we're--
I don't know about the desert here,
but I bet if these mosses live in Mojave Desert,
they live here.
"Mosses."
"For hypolithic mosses, it seems, four percent of daylight
is right.
They live, the headline says, by sheltering under a parasol
of translucent quartz.
The crystal scatters the light's ultraviolet,
dilutes its heat, traps the night's condensed moisture
to moss-sized rain.
I think of these mosses and consider.
Perhaps we, too, are mosses, evolving to the parch
of our self-made Mojaves.
Unable to bear the full brightness, the full seeing.
To recognize fully the Amazon burning, the Arctic burning,
the monarchs' smoke-colored missing migration.
An experiment not meant to last.
And yet we found shelter within it, we pondered our lives
and the lives of others, thirsted, slept.
To the implausible green of existence, for better,
for worse, we offered our four percent portion of praises,
for better, for worse, our four percent
portion of comprehension."
Thank you very much.