This is The Guardian.

On the cusp of winter 2021, I went for a walk in the woods near my house in Oxford.

By a bench that overlooks the city, I happened upon a moss-covered log that glistened green

under the overcast sky.

The mosses leaves were as tiny and intricate as the finest embroidery, and as thin as

cling film.

I brushed my fingertips over the feathery bed in awe of its minutest and complexity,

before taking a dozen photographs.

When was the last time I had touched moss?

When was the first?

I remember trees, rivers, mountains, but not moss.

But that day, I felt as if moss summoned me to pay attention to its rigor and beauty

amid its great arboreal cousins.

Or rather, moss represented something for me.

I'd been thinking about touch, about how out of touch with nature I am.

I live in a city that has many parks and meadows, but I don't touch nature enough.

Rather, I see it.

The ornamental birches, the canal, the roses on the hedgerows.

In summertime, I'll swim with friends, or sunbathe, and roll in sand and grass.

But once we are back in our sanitized homes, I continue to live out of touch.

I seek nature in small, appropriate hygienic doses.

Winter is the only true season of touching.

...