To Know Without Knowing

Red moss, crimson as blood of a slaughtered calf,
I knew I had seen it before but could not recall
where or when. Like seeing a landscape painting
knowing I had been there before, long time ago.
In the valley of cobblers children ran barefoot on
summer grass and they scented of wildflowers
unpasteurized milk and healthy, innocent laughter.
I know this to be true but don’t know why?
I think of reindeers would they eat red moss used
as they are to the grey variety? Sun keeps shining
like Spanish blood orange with a wicked cold.
The good earth is dry, waits for rain…plenty of it.
The red moss is a forgotten love story and perhaps
if I sit still long enough and wait I will remember it.

poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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