Between waterfalls

a poem written in moss

grows on stone.

Ferns sprout

from words intertwined,

twisted shaggy,

hard to define

in the mist sustaining them.

Under The Icy Ash

She walks her bike past

the dry spot where I sit.


We’re shaped the same,

man and woman,

lumpy and woolen.


She doubles back

and stops a few steps away.


Her breath unfurls as it fades

cloud after cloud out to the lake.


I open my mouth without a word.

We shade our eyes and squint

at the glare on the snow.


Michael Morical is a freelance editor in Taipei. His poems have appeared in The New York Quarterly, The Pedestal Magazine, The Hardy Review and other journals. Sharing Solitaire is his first chapbook.

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