Poems

Mushrooms

 

It is so damp here it is like an exhaled breath.
The earth has opened its airholes and sent itself up
in the form of little castles, to check out the other side.
Some are bright orange, like small lava bubbles,
one is white with ruffled fringe, and there is a colony
of other bursts, giant popcorn, coated with cedar needles.
Not to mention Indian Pipes at attention, blackened
with age. I wouldn’t say magic, so easily stumbled over
and broken to bits. They come on strong, then withdraw
as if they’ve never been. When you get old you are not
bored with mushrooms. You like to see the bubbling
which is like a champagne toast. You are interested,
now, in the lively conversation underneath.