How Could We Not See This Coming

And yet I know we did see        the cracks running   
        like roots    this way and that through our days,  

blatant or furtive      because isn't everything 
        mycelial on the lower levels     That place of mystery

beyond sight and speech      out of which hyphae
        send warnings and messages    But we're all

so well-schooled in catechisms of hope,  promising a world
        remade if we are good, though it's not   going to be 

in this one      I still wonder why knowledge, knowing,
        should have a more lethal flavor    than pretending 

not to know      So many kinds of fruit tumble out of the trees
        because it's fall      After they redden, the season of rot

But even in their decline they're generous in ways I        don't know 
        I could ever be       Of ruddy skin and rind and flesh, what

histories bleed onto our tongues       A box of mangoes I bought 
        from the store made my daughter's throat     itch and we 

don't know whether it was a different    variety from others 
        we've tried before or if anything      is safe anymore    

in a world which trains       poisons at the imperfect,  
        the strange         A rule that's bent will change 

the outcome but does all      change gather the fallen,   
        restore       the whole out of the scattered 

pieces of itself        Here we are in a season during which  
        we're expected to give thanks   And I am 

grateful      as one is expected to be         As we walk
        through the orchards      dappled still with light and

gold and green                        we are stepping on
        the fragrance of what's dying    and it makes us swoon