What is this gift of lightness?
What is this intermingled on the ground amid
tree rot, dog feces, and fire ant homes?
Something pure and free as the warm draft wafting in.
What is this white capped umbrella, loitering here in my path?
Standing as an upright shield to small groveling creatures.
A blessing to those who hunger and those who linger
This frothy white hat
And stem shoots rooted long
I, a fortunate forager, pluck it upwards
With frozen fingers,
Uprooting this provision to the sky:
For a moment it is a cloud
it is bread.
it is finding.
It is claiming.
It is a gift
from the hand of the Creator
Placed on a path that many feet trample or eyes look over
Until stumbling toes on a wayward tree root, tip
and fall face first—mud lip.
And eyes grow full and round
As this manna mushroom stands erect
growing bold and proud
Each day like it has done so for centuries.