Mushrooms | A poem by Mary Oliver, 1979
Harm Kamerlingh Onnes, Mushroom Picking in the Autumn, 1957
Rain, and then
the cool pursed
lips of the wind
draw them
out of the ground –
red and yellow skulls
pummeling upward
through leaves,
through grasses,
through sand; astonishing
in their suddenness,
their quietude,
their wetness, they appear
on fall mornings, some
balancing in the earth
on one hoof
packed with poison,
others billowing
chunkily, and delicious –
those who know
walk out to gather, choosing
the benign from flocks
of glitterers, sorcerers,
russulas,
panther caps,
shark-white death angels
in their town veils
looking innocent as sugar
but full of paralysis:
to eat
is to stagger down
fast as mushrooms themselves
when they are done being perfect
and overnight
slide back under the shining
fields of rain.
Mary Oliver, Mushrooms, 1979
