re:Virals 557

“More difficult than making your own verses interesting is understanding those of others…” ―Shinkei (1406 –1475). Citing this, Onitsura (1661 – 1738) wrote: “…this should be a way in which a person is completely given over to training.”

Welcome to re:Virals, The Haiku Foundation’s weekly commentary feature on some of your favorites among the best contemporary haiku and senryu written in English. In the host chair today is Susan Yavaniski. This week’s poem, chosen by Sébastien Revon was:

deep moss
sinking into
the slow spaces
— Isabella Mori
 LEAF, Issue 8, December 2025

Introducing this poem, Sébastien writes:

I lose myself — and my self — in the poem. It is not about moss; it simply is moss. Here we are within Bashō’s dictum: “Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, and go to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo.” As the sense of ego dissolves, perception becomes everything. The last line feels strikingly contemporary — what are those “slow spaces”? And yet, I understand it intuitively, simply by staying in the poem. Its karumi and profound yūgen make it, to me, a very inspiring poem.

Thanks to Isabella Mori’s haiku, I am reminded that haiku remains a practice of seeing rather than saying. The poems that move me most are those in which perception takes precedence over personality, where humour, grief, and beauty arise naturally from attention. This moment, shown by Isabella Mori, returns to Bashō’s invitation — to go to the pine, to the thing itself — until we vanish into what we behold.

Host comment (Susan):

It would be possible to read Mori’s verse as a simple objective description, a one-breath, one-image sentence: “deep moss (is) sinking into the slow spaces.” A seeming record of some “haiku moment” honoring an observed biological process,  the whole is rendered musical —  and memorable — with the use of enjambment, sibilance, long vowel sounds, and falling meter.  And yet, and yet… The verse draws the reader into its depths, into what is hidden within the words themselves, to search for the unanswerable “mystery,” as the author says in her comment, that gives birth to this poetry.

With the fragment “deep moss” Mori opens a portal to a psychic sanctuary, a space untouched, sacred even, evoking the secrets of a childhood hideaway, or the jungle-enveloped ruins of Angkor Wat, or the verdant spirit rainforests of Mori’s own British Columbia. Immediately tactile and sensuous, “deep moss” hints of places remote, still, silent, forgotten, and beyond time, at once inviting and slightly forbidding.  “Moss” brings to mind other orbit words* summoning both “bed,” as in “bed of moss,” and its obverse, stone,” as in “a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

“Sinking into” introduces the barest element of movement into this profound stillness. “Sinking” is a powerful weight-bearing* word, somatic, visceral, heavy as stone. Reading a break after “moss,” the present participle “sinking” posits a subject, but the reader cannot know what, or who, is going down.  “Sinking into” suggests an enveloping retreat — a downy bed, or a comfortable chair — but also deep water or quicksand. It evokes the idea of losing oneself, perhaps in something softly reassuring,  but hinting too at a loss of self more perilous, a reluctant disappearance into anonymity, like the name on a gravestone, rendered illegible by the passage of time.

“The slow spaces” is an unusual conclusion, perhaps a  “strikingly contemporary” nod as Sébastien says, to any number of the “slow movements” that are antidote to a gigabyte-fueled world, such as those architectural “slow spaces” designed as places to unwind.  “Slow spaces” may also  point  to the stable ecologies prerequisite for a bryophyte’s life and survival.  Finally, “slow spaces” evoke the process of aging and of death, the verse itself something of an exquisite — and eponymous —  memento mori.

Jonathan Epstein:

A meditative dive into a state of calm; a sense of fullness as when water seeps into the earth and by degrees completely saturates it.

“Deep moss,” a summer kigo, (see editor’s footnote) is both the ancient spongy bryophyte and one of nature’s healing colors, forest green with brown earth undertones. The descriptor “deep” adds profundity and mystery to “the slow spaces.”

“Sinking” describes the slow immersion that takes one “into the slow spaces,” an architectural term for design intended to slow down the pace of life — an alcove, a reading niche, a Zen garden, a Japanese tea room. Also, healing spaces that incorporate nature or reflections of nature, such as a therapy room painted moss green. Additionally, “the slow spaces” inside us where we go to recharge (meditation, mindfulness, prayer, and other spiritual practices).

Moss, a summer kigo, thrives in heat, rain and humidity. This haiku evokes summer’s leisurely pace, as reflected in “the slow spaces.” Moss, the key image, evokes the sensuous smell and feel of the damp earth to which it clings and offers an array of associations (resilience, adaptability, humility, earthiness, deep tranquility)

Reading this aloud has a slowing and calming effect on mind and speech. The sibilants act as the sound of air escaping from an inner tube, deflating thoughts, restoring one to a place of calm.

Are we in the presence of botanical moss or the color of moss? The ambiguity invites openness. We can imagine sitting in a Kyoto temple moss garden or decompressing in a moss-painted therapy room. Both nature and the colors of nature help heal body, mind, heart and spirit.

The poet has steeped this haiku in yugen with “deep moss” and “slow spaces.” “[D]eep moss,” as the central image, exudes wabi-wabi (humble, weathered, imperfect, rustic, ancient, earth’s patina).

Urszula Marciniak:

A bed of moss. A beautiful thing. Soft, comfortable, natural, almost endless. As close to nature as possible. Trees rustle overhead. Birds sing. Mosquitoes bite. Ants bite. Ticks sneak in unnoticed. It reminds us of childhood. Back then, there were mosquitoes and ants, even ticks, but we don’t remember them. We remember the softness of the moss. We remember the endless carefreeness. We miss it so much. Now we have to think about so many things and worries. Even on vacation, we can’t completely immerse ourselves in the moss, making the whole world disappear. Let’s take off our sandals and dance on a carpet of moss. Maybe the little animals won’t have time to bite us. What if there are snakes? They warned us to wear rubber boots in the forest. How to dance in rubber boots? The trampled moss will regenerate, it will be the same, but are we still the same in our rubber boots? We set boundaries to feel safe. We still don’t feel safe and we distance ourselves from the world, from nature.

Carol Reynolds:

Line 1 of this haiku led me immediately to the town of Robertson in the New South Wales Southern Highlands where the three most significant people in my life are laid to rest. Its elevated location offers a cool, misty climate year-round, the perfect environment for mosses and lichens which particularly like to grow on headstones. Older graves no longer cared for have surrendered to layers of ‘deep moss’. The cemetery looks out over lush green rolling hills, a peaceful place that compels you to slow down, take a breath and reflect. Lines 2 and 3, ‘sinking into the slow spaces’, describe this moment.

In earlier times the Southern Highlands region was dairy farming country but is now a popular retirement destination. As a child, living in the city, I was fortunate to have a relative who owned one of those dairy farms and I often enjoyed a farm stay during school holidays. Even at a young age I recognised the slower pace and calming effect of living in a slower environment if only briefly.

Nowadays with populations increasing and cities becoming more crowded, green spaces are diminishing. High rise buildings are replacing urban bungalows. The Slow Culture is finding its way into modern building design by integrating nature into the built environment. Paint colours are known to influence mood. Deep Moss is among the many shades of green on colour charts. Considered the colour of nature it imparts a sense of coolness and tranquility.

During the Covid epidemic we were compelled to appreciate a different way of living in restricted surroundings. It inspired us to enjoy the simple things. We had time to cultivate our imagination, develop skills and create spaces where we could just be. I can’t help but draw a comparison between the positive merits of the Covid experience and the concept of ‘Ma’ in Japanese culture.

‘How we spend our time and shape the space we live in directly impacts our progress’.
(Extracted from an article, ‘Ma’ explained, which appeared on the website Unique Japan)

Alan Summers:

I often like to read just the first word of each line to see if it adds to the overall haiku:

deep
sinking
the

And sometimes the last word of each line:

moss
into
spaces

The end words also make for a really neat 3-line very short haiku!

Combining both together lends a complementary bonus (and vertical) haiku:

deep
sinking
the
moss
into
spaces

And then going back to the original verse, I see that all that was left out was ‘slow’. When I add this to my little exercises, I revolve around that ‘slow’ and it enriches the haiku for me.

Why do this?

Because sometimes we rush a haiku, just commit rapid reading, and don’t see and feel the care.

Plus I like to read and re-read a haiku many, many times, and if it still stays for me, I feel I’ve met a new friend and not just a casual acquaintance.

Radhamani Sarma:

A topic deviating from tall buildings, multi-storied apartments, busy railroads and the throb of the metro and busy malls and romping romance, to vegetation and deep moss:  a stylish beauty, a product of damp and and wet, and though not edible, a friend of soil. Thick, overgrown, flowerless green plants without roots, moss is the organic stuff in the garden, its green clumps growing in mats, so nice to look at when spreading around.  A  study of ecology reveals all these vital factors and survival imperative for the moss with the passage of time.

“Deep moss” leaves space for conjecture and expansion. With more and more moisture, this moss spreads and grows, not allowing other plants to thrive,  dominating its environment. Just as human beings are short, tall, medium sized, each according to genealogy, so too do mosses have their own specifications, suited to their particular place. Moss belongs to a species called non-vascular, meaning these do not have infrastructure to store adequate water to grow to greater heights.

The second and third lines, take a sudden twist: “sinking into/ the slow spaces.” Obviously, a drought strikes, and as the aridity deepens, as storage of water reduces, clusters of moss sink below, into slow spaces. A lesson for human beings: during the process of growth, advancement with aging and decay, so also with flora and fauna.  A typical example is that moss also cannot survive in hot air or where moisture is reduced.  Another vital element is water is essential component for all:  water for proper growth, for digestion, water to quench thirst both for animals and birds and above all water for hydration etc.

To conclude, a study of ecology and biology comprising plant cell system is mandatory forthwith. How moss can be a source of comfort and soothing! Here is a famous quote (by John Keats):

“And when thou art weary, I’ll find thee a bed,

Of mosses, and flowers, to pillow thy head.”

Dan Campbell:

STREET PREACHER DAN COMMENTS ON A POEM

Listen to me, now. These three little lines speak louder than this old man with a microphone standing on a milk crate.

deep moss
sinking into
the slow spaces

I’ve been watching people my whole life. Bus stations, sidewalks, parking lots, hospital waiting rooms. Folks hurry with nowhere to go. They run, scroll, hustle, sweat, and chase. Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone has somewhere important to be.

Then this little poem approaches and grabs me by the throat.
Deep moss.

Moss isn’t flashy. It doesn’t try to be a redwood tree. It doesn’t stand tall saying, “Look at me!” Moss stays low. Quiet. Humble. You might miss it if you’re rushing.

That’s how God works sometimes.

People look for earthquakes, lightning, and giant signs in the clouds while God whispers from the ground. We want fireworks; God sends fireflies. We want thunder; God sends a still small voice. We want skyscrapers; God plants moss.

And moss grows slow.

It grows slow enough that proud people get impatient.
Slow enough that ambitious people walk away.
Slow enough that the world says, “Nothing is happening here.”

But heaven knows better.

Then that middle line hit me in the chest:
sinking into

Every soul is sinking into something. Don’t say you’re not sinking. You are. We all are.

Some folks sink into money.
Some sink into bitterness.
Some sink into addiction.
Some sink into loneliness while smiling for pictures.

Everybody is being pulled somewhere.
And this poem says sink into the slow spaces.

Lord, we don’t even know what slow spaces are anymore.

Slow spaces are front porches before television took over evenings. Slow spaces are times of prayer when nobody’s watching. Slow spaces are kitchens where people linger after supper, talking about nothing and somehow discussing everything. Slow spaces are places where your soul finally catches up to your body.

Because listen now:
The devil likes speed.

Speed keeps you distracted.
Speed keeps you reacting.
Speed keeps you moving fast enough so that you never hear the cracks in your own heart, yes, we never hear the cracks in our own hearts.

Let me hear it again, AMEN!

But some things only grow slowly.
Peace grows slowly.
Wisdom grows slowly.
Mercy grows slowly.
Faith grows slowly.
Moss grows slowly.

And maybe salvation has a little moss in it too.\\

Sudha Devi Nayak

The haiku is a psalm of peace,unutterable peace, evoking images of quietude, solitary spaces, and exceptional silence. Line one sets the scene, line two stops short: “sinking into” – we can almost see and feel the gentle settling in of moss into the depths of soil, untouched by time. Moss are ancient plants that grow in deep, shady environments. Moss growing deep in crevices and soil signifies slow evolution and the passage of thousands of years. Moss is untamed nature secretive and resilient.
Time is indeed in slow tide,” the inaudible, noiseless foot of time,” and we are conscious, acutely aware of the place, sacrosanct beyond the buzz and cacophony of everyday life. Everything is muted, we have come to the edge, a kind of timelessness where nothing exists except large silences covered with moss. Perhaps this was what the beginning of the world,  primeval time the moment of creation seemed to the first created beings.  No memory, no anticipation, no apprehension, no regret or remorse, only a quiet overwhelming, ennobling being. We listen to the solemn music of the passing of time familiar and intimate.

When we turn away from this world we are hurled into the midst of life with its rush of hours and days that finally drags us into nothingness. Whatever we are in detail, we are nevertheless a piece of nature, part of the great fresco of the cosmos and right now we are part of the moss-covered world.

Sitarama Seshu Maringanti

The wetlands, besides the low hilly regions with periodical heavy rainfall are ideally suited for mosses to grow deep and spongy. These mosses can absorb any amount of water and weigh many times their natural weight. Isabella Mori conceptualises a scenario for us in which deep and water-heavy mosses sink into slow spaces available between the rocks and floor slabs and appear as designer carpets. They can form beautiful lush green patches between stepping stones and add to the architectural elegance of open spaces in and around the office and residential buildings. The haiku is a compact depiction of the mosses and slow spaces by the author, Isabella Mori.

Linda Price:

Impressions – ( 1 ) I like this poem. I’ve enjoyed thinking about it. ( 2 ) The visual line rhythm is 2 – 2 – 3, which seems satisfying. ( 3 ) I like the repeated “s” sounds of moss – sinking – slow – spaces. ( 4 ) I particularly like the first line “deep moss” with its double letters in each word, the words seem to sink into that dense green. ( 5 ) I like the way the wording of the poem emulates the slowness of moss growth. Moss seems to not grow at all, if it is watched. But leave the moss alone, come back months later when conditions are favorable and magic, dry scratchy stubble has transformed itself. ( 6 ) throughout the poem I like the choice of words. Can “spaces” be “slow” ?? the spaces can be slow in the world of this poem.
I read this poem again, so satisfying.

A layered haiku; a tribute to nature as everyone’s primary care doctor.

David Cox:

Although haiku is already renowned for its brevity, this poem is exceptionally succinct in its verbiage; and yet, we are encouraged to read those words at a relatively slow pace. We are therefore corralled softly into the slow lane while whispering out its soft sibilance. I am informed by Google’s Gemini that “green moss” can refer to a specific shade: “a rich, dark green with strong yellow-olive undertones and a muted, earthy quality.” The phrase itself, “deep moss”, evokes a pleasing aesthetic as much as the colour does.

The poem appears to establish an anticipatory trajectory with its semantic field of falling: “deep…sinking.” When I arrive at the third line, I am mistaken in thinking that I have reached a low which is, in fact, “slow.” I am elevated by the thought of such “slow spaces”:  figuratively calm spaces, or a more literal ‘room of one’s own’, in which to achieve that sense of grounding.  The “sinking” in this poem encourages the reader to experience a pleasant, heavy, and hypnotic movement, evoked in the gentle plod from the first line to the last, following the movement of this ubiquitous organism, a keystone species with the potential to restore balance in its natural environment. Any organism capable of this sort of ubiquity is,. in literature, almost always sinister:  the Triffids from The Day of the Triffids or the Red Weed from The War of the Worlds. The poem speaks instead of a synergy that nature can offer, perhaps lacking among the flora of science fiction.

The real success of bryophytes is that they succeed in so many different spaces; spreading out, they fill those spaces and create a sensuous blanket of fecund green.

Shannon Blood — coming home to self:

There is an immediate visceral pull downward reading this poem. The combination of the sibilants and memories of green, spongy moss capture an all-too-real sensation of aging: the weight of accumulated wisdom and experience; the inevitable winding down of life. The poem doesn’t leave a bitter aftertaste which it so easily could if it had led with “sinking into.” Opening with “deep moss” captures a natural pause; another hesitancy occurs between “sinking” and “into“ setting the stage for the downward slide into “the slow spaces.” One is left with the sense of a welcoming and safe space, a sense of coming home to self. A remarkable poem on so many levels.

Author Isabella Mori:

How a poem is born is often a mystery, and I am glad to say that I don’t know what this haiku “really means.” However, here are some thoughts. I have long had a (very unscientific) interest in fractals and chaos theory – how shapes, in nature as well as mathematically, repeat and arrange themselves both at the micro and macro levels, but always with unpredictable variations. I think the poem, looking at the tiny grass-like structures that make up what we think of as moss, may have been born partly out of that, and out of an even older fascination with the liminal, the in-between spaces. What would it be like to be a tiny organism, to experience moss, a very, very old and slow-growing life form, as one’s home environment, maybe even one’s entire world?

Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Shannon Blood has chosen next week’s poem, which you’ll find below. We invite you to write a commentary to it. It may be short, to a maximum of 500 words (succinctness will be valued);  academic, your personal response, spontaneous, or idiosyncratic. As long as it focuses on the verse presented, and with respect for the poet, all genuine reader reaction, criticism, and pertinent discussion is of value.   Out-takes are kept in the THF Archives.  Best of all, the chosen commentary’s author gets to pick the next poem.

Anyone can participate. Simply use the re:Virals commentary form below to enter your commentary on the new week’s poem (“Your text”) by the following Tuesday midnight, Eastern US Time Zone, and then press Submit to send your entry. The Submit button will not be available until Name, Email, and Place of Residence fields are filled in. We look forward to seeing your commentary and finding out about your favourite poems. Please note that commentaries must be your own personal work.

Poem for commentary:

     
gulp!
our resident bullfrog
swallows a swallow
— Henry W. Kreuter
Fractured by Cattails
2023 Haiku Society of America Members' Anthology

Author Bio:
Isabella Mori writes pretty much everything that’s not nailed down: Fiction (a 15th century monk whose best friend is a comfrey plant), nonfiction (“All the way from the eocene on Highway 400”), and poetry (lots of haiku.) Their great love is hybrid text (haibun!). Their latest book, Believe Me, combines poetry, stories, interviews and research about mental health and addiction. Publications have been in places such as Circle of Salt, State Of Matter, Cutting Letters Anthology, Presence, Signs Of Life, The Group Of Seven Reimagined and the award-winning Through The Portal. Isabella runs Canada’s most unusual poetry prize, Muriel’s Journey, for which the entry fee is showing how the poet contributes to their community. They live on the unceded lands of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh aka Vancouver, Canada.

You will find an interview with Isabella Mori here:
Haiku Canada Newsletter

Footnote:
* See John Stevenson’s  discussion on “orbit” words and “weight-bearing” words here: The Heron’s Nest Editor’s Choice Commentary

* For information on moss as a kigo, see the entry on moss in Gabi Greve’s The World Haiku Database.  According to Greve’s website, moss is seasonless, but when combined with an adjective can become a seasonal reference, for instance, “green moss” is a summer kigo, but “scraping moss off gravestones” is an autumn kigo. I have been unable to verify that “deep moss” itself is a kigo, summer or otherwise.   In an email discussion,  Jonathan wrote that he got his information from AI, discovering  only after our email exchange that asking the question “is deep moss a kigo” multiple times yielded different, and conflicting,  AI responses. Alas, AI is not quite yet authoritative on this matter (or most others, I find).  Perhaps someone out there with a compendious saijiki can let us know definitively.

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