Days 12-14 of NaPoWriMo
Grief
The grave is a lonely place,
But only for the mourner
Flesh and bones are temporary,
Hold on to the memories,
A thought cannot die
And if you spy, in the far corner
Of the graveyard, an unmarked plot
Beneath an elder tree,
Know that the bones interred there
Are a wish
And the spirit of the Black Dog
Has ushered your loved one
To their eternity
Foraging Fungi
In congregated groups beneath the blackberries
And clustered heaps on silver birch and hazel trees
Enticing shades of ochre, russet, and crimson
Or muted browns and greens that hide them 'neath oak trees
Their fluted forms, bulbous sacs, and elegant gills
Microscopic spores that drop from their aging gills
Forced
In the warm, damp dark
A root becomes a shoot becomes a stem.
The creak and groan of cellulose,
Reaching for a non-existent light.
The slight flutter of juvenile leaves
And the faint pitter-patter as soil is upheaved.
Clean pink flesh, and the stress of growth
Is sugary sweet,
A snail's foot has ten thousand teeth,
Ten thousand tiny chomps to feast
And the rhubarb keeps
On growing.
