Old Croc

He was one of those kids who enjoyed spending time with the older generation. His favorite place to pass a lazy summer afternoon was Granddad's den. The den was a place where magic happened, a place where stories reigned supreme. Towering bookshelves leaned precariously under the weight of their contents. A mahogany desk with a leather blotter and a brass counter-balanced lamp took up the center of an oriental carpet. Behind the desk, in facing chairs, he and Grandad created the adventures of larger than life heroes. His favorite was Old Croc, a rescuer of all things fair and valuable who had lost his leg to a crocodile.

Heavenly Moss

I am the moss that grows where grass will not.
My bed is silk to the polyester of grass.
My color is electric to subdued fescues.
My taste is sweet to the harshness of grass.
My stature is sublime to gangly blades.
I grow where I will not be trampled,
content to contemplate the richness of soil
and delicacy of dew drops.
I am the Heaven that is longed for.