To Know Without Knowing

Red moss, crimson as blood of a slaughtered calf, I knew I had seen it before but could not recall where or when. Like seeing a landscape painting knowing I had been there before, long time ago. In the valley of cobblers children ran barefoot on summer grass and they scented of wildflowers unpasteurized milk and healthy, innocent laughter. I know this to be true but don’t know why? I think of reindeers would they eat red moss used as they are to the grey variety? Sun keeps shining like Spanish blood orange with a wicked cold. The good earth is dry, waits for rain…plenty of it. The red moss is a forgotten love story and perhaps if I sit still long enough and wait I will remember it.