Golden brown parasols clustered
near oak stumps, as if an artist
snuck onto my property to create
an installation. They grow on death
clustered in little communities
as if waiting for arrivals of the right-
sized elves or hobbits, domes
gleaming in morning sunlight,
tender gills beneath.
Locals say they’re edible
as well as plentiful after rain
in spring, but I let them be,
watch squirrels pick and nibble.
They know how to tell authentics
from imitators and impostors.
They scurry and dig, chase
each other around tree trunks, mate
in the highest branches unaware
I’m peeping with binoculars,
wanting to see into another world,
balanced with plant and animals,
lichens curling after rain. Between
the ephemeral mushrooms, spiderwebs
are strung with dew like pearls,
their filaments flung into the air
with confidence they’ll find
secure purchase and build a home.
Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and seminar leader. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam), and her poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Comstock Review, The MacGuffin, Prairie Schooner, North Dakota Quarterly, Poet Lore, Slant, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.
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