This moss, like I, searches for a cool space.

I took a side route, for time and comfort.

A stump at the entrance showed the way.

But a hollow rattle, crackled underfoot,

And green lava developed, wishing.

It tried out new strange shapes, just to loot.

Lava moss wrapped branches, like fire hissing.

Over broken things it bridged and sealed.

Archer's bow waited to heel, orders missing.

A broken armed starfish survived evolution.

Wars were to begin, without revolution.

– Angela Porter