Moss-covered loam
in shade, gentle bed,
exhales quietly ‘neath
pressing, weary heads.
Whither do I roam?
…and why, nomad?
Why do you roam?
It is the gentle spring,
It is the whisper of seas.
It is the roaring, old gods,
high on bald mountaintops,
sneering at mortality.
I long for woodland beds
to hold me in peaceful rest.
Mycelial fingers caress
and take hold, pulling me
deep into ebon chasms,
to find one final road…
I feel myself everywhere
and the trees whisper,
”Pack your bag, nomad,
we’ll leave just as soon
as you are gone.”
© CG Tenpenny, 2025. Hello, friends, it’s been a while! Sorry for the silence but thanks for sticking around. I wrote this poem today for a studio assignment and it felt good.