Luck and beauty.
Looking up from the bottom
to where the tops of trees 
meet and reach for each other
against the sky—one crow 
crosses over, looking.
Tiny moss is starting to grow
and sprout despite the
April cold.
It says:
I am no forlorn angel,
I am luck,
I am beauty,
and I grow
without knowing the end.
Moss sprouting leaves on the floor of my favorite forest.