I haven’t done much poetry in recent years, but every now and then the muse visits. This time the mushrooms brought her. I love these little guys. They’re popping up all over the path that I walk along at the college. I stop and talk to them every morning. Some have told me their names. The other day I startled one of the professors who stumbled across us while we were conversing.
The monsoon coaxes the mushroom people above ground Myopic and fumbling they push through the loam Most comfortable in shade and moist places Their song is thunder Rain their dance Friend to earth worm and dying leaf Intimate with the darkness