After the rain,
The mushrooms proliferate, spreading like a fungal blanket across the lap of our lawn.
Their spongy, bone-colored forms emerge overnight,
Infusing the grounds with a mythical energy,
Their domed heads fairy-dusting the yard alongside the dew.
I look at them and see hideaways for gnomes & elvish creatures,
While my husband sees a checklistable item,
Scourges needing beheading with the next mowing.
I long to lounge alongside them, gazing at them,
Appreciating their eccentric architecture
That emerges as quickly as a tent on a camping trip or an old-time revival.
They present as hardy, but their gilled flesh is delicate as Dover sole,
And just as tender.
Common, fruitful, abundant,
They are not dissuaded by exile,
Merely biding their time below ground,
Until the next great rainfall
Resurrects the next generation,
And they Rise.
Elizabeth Roach-Smith’s published work includes poetry and nonfiction articles about food and bourbon. She earned a degree in English literature at Furman University and a graduate certificate in Publishing from Columbia University. She lives in Louisville, Kentucky with her family and Great Pyrenees dog, where she works in communications.