Wednesday, September 9, 2009


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 torn 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

1 comment:

  1. This poem is an object poem because the writer, Mary Oliver, uses word imagery to explain the object. Through the poem we can begin to see the unrecognized beauty of mushrooms and the purposes they can hold.


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