Thursday, October 17


Mushroom cap, orangey-red,
Sprinked with spots upon your head,
Soft white belly, joy to touch,
Wonder—do you whisper much?
Underneath your hat perched so
Fan the slats, about they go.
Like a pinwheel, delicate,
Spiral eaves so intricate.
At your foot the earth is damp,
Round you all the faeries stamp.
Black the forest, all around,
Bright you glow, so crimson-crowned
While all the while, quiet lies;
A careless step is your demise.

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