A mushroom sprouts from granite.
Its yellow-capped indifference
elides the universal angst
of crop failure heatstroke, and flood.
Persistence pays off. The heat
this morning pools like oil slicks.
My neighbor’s half-constructed barn
stands like the skeleton in armor.
The contractors take whole weeks off
because hydrating the work crew
in this grim weather’s impossible.
While you weed luxurious weeds
from our overflowing garden
I stalk around the neighborhood,
greeting favorite dogs and noting
the storm damage remaining
from a winter of heavy effects.
The mushroom is toxic, of course,
with the poise of a precocious child.
You wonder why despite the rain
we’ve so few mushrooms in our yard.
Yet this perfect specimen dares
to weave its cilium through rock
rather than spooring itself on soft
amiable forest floor where
leaf-mold prevails. The barn,
if it isn’t struck by lightning,
will be finished by autumn when
a summer of debts comes due.
I should go home and help you weed,
but I get dizzy kneeling in sun.
The asphalt road slides underfoot
as I walk as firmly as I dare,
leaving the mushroom gloating
over its finely wrought construction,
which will last only three or four days.
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