I've Never Hunted Mushrooms

I’ve Never Hunted Mushrooms. They Tend to Find Me as I’m Hunting Other Things

There was the surprise of Coral Mushrooms in late July,

or maybe August.

We were picking wild blackberries, hanging ripe and heavy on the canes

along the dirt road that passed our house, and then moved on to Grandma’s.

I was not sure then, that it was safe to eat.

“Leave it alone,” I said. Instructing my daughters on safety and certainty;

and other things to value on a walk down dirt roads

in the summertime.

The single Morel stood alone

in the middle of the overgrown track through the woods.

I was selfish then, and pulled it without consideration.

It smelled of snake skins and

indigenous footpaths buried under the leaf fall.

Of the underbelly of box turtles and acorns that never took root.

I simmered it slowly with real butter and ate it without salt.

I didn’t know I would never see another.

The black tree fungus hid among the vinca vines,

taking advantage.

I was ignorant then, of the decomposing roots beneath the soil

as I crouched and planted and pulled weeds from the bed.

St. Francis seemed comfortable enough among the iris,

but how could he know the potential?

We couldn’t know how many storms the old tree could take;

He is made of cement, and I am an optimist.

This poem is being posted as part of the #100dayproject. Find out more here.

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