In early autumn after days
of rain, forest seams burst
with clean white fruit. Sagging
trunks, last year’s decay breathe
with Bear’s tooth, diamonding
in muddy earth. With knife
and bucket, I hunt this luxury: wild
mushrooms. Long sleeves pushed
to elbow, a sleeping child carried
on my back. Afternoon sun
sweet in my lungs, this is the work
of harvest without planting. I am
hopeful as Lion’s mane: your wildness
sounds in my ears, all new.