Ode to a Toadstool

photo provided by G Peschel; used with permission

She holds the cone

ever gently,

cradling the gift.

Exquisite thing,

delicate hands.

With wonderment

she considers

its strange beauty.


Maybe lethal,

but not to touch.

If this be thing

most deadly she

encounters she

will have been blest

with good fortune.


As what she holds

will transition

through life cycle,

she, too, will grow

and, with time, old.

Her dark tresses

will gray and thin.

Her skin, now smooth,

will furrow and

the now flawless

hands will deform.

Time has its way

with all things

by wintertime.


But it is spring.

Let us rejoice

in this moment

when youth prevails

and life is good.


And what of me

(I, full of years)?


My heart melts.