Roots in the Mulch

I slipped past the shadow of the wooden porch railing and dropped straight into the cool flowerbed. Right in the dark mulch, a cluster of pale roots branched out like grasping fingers. I tilted my head sideways, peering almost upside down into the muddy fork. A plump cushion of bright green moss sat wedged between the wood, swollen and wet. On impulse, I drove my blunt palm right into the center! The spongy dome gave way with a soft, damp sigh, cool moisture bubbling up around my skin. I paused—holding my breath. When I lifted my touch, the velvet green slowly pushed itself back up?