Mushrooms
I see them under last year’s fallen leaves.
Burnt orange, fire engine red, and a small one with blue spots
just the size for a forest toad to sit. Some have a notch in the tissue,
perhaps eaten by a box turtle. The mushroom pokes
up from the musty earth floor. At first, it is squat and fat,
like a Buddha. Then, like an umbrella, its top opens.
Come Fall, the mushroom’s cap will drop its spores
into the forest wind.
The desert cracked as the spore dropped
to the sand. The top unfolded; its stem
dangled below. Behind protected bunkers, officials
heard the blast rushing towards them;
saw blinding light; felt the winds that followed
across the scorched desert. The top
spewed debris into the heated air.
Some mushrooms will kill you,
the red ones I think.
The Homestead Review
Spring 2015
