After rain, clouds of spores. They settle
among the roots of trees. Channels part
the grass to reveal new colonies. For the most
part, we leave them be. Who'd put their mouths
to the ground just to interrogate them more
closely? Time ransacks our rooms constantly,
for trophies. Time uproots with no warning,
then sends groves of color earthward.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
