Poetry About Mushrooms

In caps rising after night rain, mushrooms finds a visible shape. White threads traveling under leaf mold carries what ordinary speech leaves unfinished. Between gills holding a dust of spores and a red toadstool bright in shadow, the heart learns to listen. The forest’s hidden network makes decay another form of giving, though the day rarely says so aloud. By night, fallen wood becoming forest soil becomes a promise rather than an ending.

White threads traveling under leaf mold enters the poem first. Mushrooms follows, neither symbol nor explanation, but weather. A red toadstool bright in shadow keeps the difficult measure. We stand near caps rising after night rain and let certainty loosen. The forest’s hidden network makes decay another form of giving. Fallen wood becoming forest soil remains after the room grows quiet.

Someone remembers gills holding a dust of spores. Someone else names caps rising after night rain and means an entire life. Mushrooms moves between them with patient hands. White threads traveling under leaf mold refuses to become only background. The forest’s hidden network makes decay another form of giving. At last, fallen wood becoming forest soil gives the silence somewhere to rest.