This morning, as I walked to class,
I passed a ring of mushrooms with large
flat tops that had sprung up overnight,
or rather in the early hours of the morning.
I thought of the videos I had seen
of mushrooms poking their heads
out of the dark earth, unfolding caps,
draping their veils like old women
on Sunday, and although I knew
that’s how these mushrooms must have
gotten there it seemed more logical
that they had simply appeared,
with no growing left to do at all.
The fact that mushrooms grow in rings
is one of those things that I just accept,
like the increasing entropy of the universe
or the way your cologne lingers
on my skin for hours after you leave.
I don’t dare dive into the details,
lose myself in thoughts of how
you must look asleep in the sun
or of the vast network of mycelia under
my feet, each strand leading to
the mushrooms’ waiting heart.