Jason Bowler, Fungi on a Gate Post, 2016 (Artist Flickr)
Digital photograph
Courtesy of Flickr
After rain, a spore drinks itself awake
in the glimmered meadow. Hyphal hairs
grow out from this center, nuclei
flow in all directions, subterranean
threads weave a chitin mandala
beneath the grass. At the hidden
circle’s edge, mushroom parasols
unfurl in moon chill, cast
a fairy ring of fleshy shade at noon
to mark the whirl of secret dance.
All through my concrete childhood
I longed to live unpaved
in a place where dance could shake
and wake the Earth. I believed dances
done at the indigo hour when mist ghosted
the river could coax strange fungi
to rise and sway to ruffed grouse drums
throbbing in the black wood.
I wanted to leave my body, hot and twisted
in damp August sheets, eyes shut to neon glare.
I wanted to shrink and sit quiet under
a frost white cap, my head just brushing
the pleated gills, mint scent
drifting toward midnight, my back
against a slender stipe, smooth
and cool as stream-washed quartz.