You smell like the color green.

Like spinach and grass, steamed collards and calalou,

Like mosses before winter when the forest is damp, grey,

A sprinkle of sunshine between the tops of the evergreens

Mosses and memories surround me. The cold nordic wind squeezes its fingers between my jacket and my chest; my shoulders squinch closer to my neck and my body stiffens. Bending I scrape the bottom of the green luscent living being bringing it up like a pancake, carefully placing it in the paper bag.  Yellow and orange velvety flesh like petals, ripe for picking easily slide into my fingers, unlike their slippery grey and white umbrella cousins who need to be slightly pulled.  They’re  plenty full this time of year, the season is short, but mosses continue forever like memories that never go away.