Way back when I wrote poetry, I wrote one about a mushroom:
Chanterelle, the forest fish, noses through fir needles for mossy air. It travels in schools around rotting stumps, a chunky golden pad with gills. Chanterelle, the spore mouse, hides beneath ferns on dripping autumn mornings, concealing an oyster-pale body, revealing a toasted marshmallow head. Chanterelle: pushed up from black earth, disdaining chlorophyll, squeezed out of dark forest roots and molded into cup shapes, waiting for your fingers.
Lovely, lovely mushrooms, and I especially love that you recognize a secret passage when you see one!
ReplyDeletethese are gorgeous, T. that seattle weather...
ReplyDeleteWay back when I wrote poetry, I wrote one about a mushroom:
ReplyDeleteChanterelle, the forest fish,
noses through fir needles
for mossy air.
It travels in schools
around rotting stumps,
a chunky golden pad with gills.
Chanterelle, the spore mouse,
hides beneath ferns
on dripping autumn mornings,
concealing an oyster-pale body,
revealing a toasted marshmallow head.
Chanterelle: pushed up from black earth,
disdaining chlorophyll,
squeezed out of dark forest roots
and molded into cup shapes,
waiting
for your fingers.