Fungi

sometimes

i stumble lost

on my way

to hear

their conversations

a puff of amber smoke

pops up

when i

plop down

my arse

nearby

it is the place

where she once stood

this massive oak

almighty wood

before the coming

of her once-in-a-lifetime storm

yellow fairy cups yellow

patches witches’ butter white

maze chanterelle oysters

turkey-tails both

true and false

crumbled rags of lichen

they ask her why

the forest paints and

draws upon the sky

when growing up

even in death

she savors their soft words

sautés her answers

makes them laugh

breathless

i am in

their good company

watching as

a millipede

motors through

damp

contours

of all

that’s

past