They grow like chrysalises with something
Sweet inside but don’t protect the precious
Things they live for but wear them on the outside.
They soak in the dew to carry on their
Lives in hopeful, peaceful, careful silence.
Green attached like top hats stuck onto a
Brain of lovely thoughts of summer and smell.
We pick them to eat and serve with delight
But they grow for a stronger purpose so
That their line may live on when they drop to
The cold ground and bury themselves in moisture
And are surrounded with life and oxygen.
The precious cargo they wear on their sleeve
Will detach and swirl around until they
Have implanted on something strong to live on.
But sometimes we give them help. Beasts small in
Stature yet big on flight will swallow the
Little lives and carry them to a place
Foreign yet right. Others are enveloped
And slipped into the hand of someone who
Desires a green thumb and puts them in
A pot for a brighter summer lunch. I love
My summer fruit and their desire to
Spread the word and build bigger and better
Leaves, vines, houses, shades, holes, roots, and seeds for
Each season. They wear their fruits outside their
Skin and show no scare with their bright color
Red. “come eat me” they say “so I may grow and
Spread the word to another who wishes
To support our dreams and wants till the end ”
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Mushrooms By LAURA KASISCHKE
Like silent naked monks huddled
around an old tree stump, having
spun themselves in the night
out of thought and nothingness—
And God so pleased with their silence
He grants them teeth and tongues.
Like us.
How long have you been gone?
A child’s hot tears on my bare arms.
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