Moss
  

This is its year. Not tiger nor
snake have omens so pat
as this which creeps upon a rock

a gatepost, a cracked path
as if some Japanese master sought
in tracery the path of snails

or this tide moving up a tree
as if a sloth had left a slime
of indecision there, to climb

and threaten no one. This is
its strength. One thinks
sun will soon take care of it

provided meantime we do not
slip while looking at a distant view
upon detail so advancing and advanced.