Lepraria incana
Dust lichen, you say. Powder stains my glove-tips, grey as trees, as fields, as sky. Your glass finds fragile empires in broken bark and stone.
Graphis scripta
Writing lichen. Your hands run gentle over birches, reading secret runes. The words mean nothing to me. Take off those gloves, you say.
Cladonia pyxidata
Chalice lichen. I spot it first. You smile and pass the lens, warm from your grasp. Fairy-cups rise from moss, inviting me to drink.
Rhizocarpon geographicum
Map lichen. We navigate terrains of ochre, mustard, gold. When your fingers brush mine, I know I am not lost.
First published in Retreat West, 29th March 2022.
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