Morel Mushrooms
Softly they come
thumbing up from
firm ground
protruding unharmed.
Easily crumbled
and yet
how they shouldered
the leaf and mold
aside, rising
unperturbed,
breathing obscurely,
still as stone.
By the slumping log,
by the dappled aspen,
they grow alone.
A dumb eloquence
seems their trade.
Like hooded monks
in a sacred wood
they say:
Tomorrow we are gone.
thumbing up from
firm ground
protruding unharmed.
Easily crumbled
and yet
how they shouldered
the leaf and mold
aside, rising
unperturbed,
breathing obscurely,
still as stone.
By the slumping log,
by the dappled aspen,
they grow alone.
A dumb eloquence
seems their trade.
Like hooded monks
in a sacred wood
they say:
Tomorrow we are gone.
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Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Reprinted from Wilderness Magazine, Spring, 1993, by permission of the author. Copyright © 1993 by Jane Whitledge. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.