Season of Mists

This time of year, my neighbors think about fungi. Nourishing, healing, entheogenic–whatever they mean to any one person, they mean fascination to me. Of course they are intelligent. Of course they communicate, with each other, and with us.

Haven’t checked in with any magic ones in years, but it doesn’t matter. I can still feel their spirit in the air and all around while they are fruiting.

5 September 2016


Mycelium and Soul

Sit with your prim knees together in front of the fire, my good girl, then rise up and go out—
out like the light that was one lonely candle, in one tiny wisp of blue smoke. Round about
the next tide of twilight, the woman you were will recall her old essence and breathe it out here.
Then will you meet me, in eyes and in mind, if not in the flesh? What has made you appear

so real, so substantial, the while I am learning the various bodiless states I have seen?
Prim and well-hidden, he tells me; we’ve lain in a field of green pages that held all we mean
to be and to know through the next countless eons, through which ancient stories must weave the new threads
that grow on the roots that have reached us. This evening is theirs; we were friends; now we’re their newlyweds.

Maybe just flow like a ripple of shivers across my right shoulder, then let go the shift.
Sink as if fainting toward an enclosure where both of us know someone waits who will lift
the sash on the last pane of glass that has even the least hope of purchase on any false world.
You should be glad, my old dear, that I love you so much I’m still limitless feyness unfurled,

and you are the matter of shadows wherever you’ve danced on a lawn that long love seeded deep..
Asleep and awake, as you’re dreaming all-ways, call home through the signals that sent you to sleep,
the seal and the miracled depth-counter-magic that spells it out clearly in gooseflesh and awe—
Hold me up just a while longer; I’m modest. I don’t want mere mortals to see what you saw.


About J

formal verse poetry and commentary at
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