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.
(Author-Jane Whitledge)
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