Song for a Toadstool
It fell last night with silent rain,
a chilly hand come to claim
the berries, all but finished now,
and the apples
sweet to bursting on the bough.
Even the clover wept to see
the firewitch and mallow nod
while over there, the goldenrod
all solemn, bowed and vowed to keep
the foxglove’s vigil,
forsaken now for sleep.
Little friend, I mistook you
for a stone amidst the autumn dew
or a pool of moonlight,
brave and not quite
resigned to final retreat.
But you are not.
In the darkest night you bloomed,
stretched forth your wings
and beneath made room
against the rain, as soft as air,
so a little cricket sheltered there.
Let the soil embrace my foundering knees.
We shall sit beneath the golden trees
and ease the passing season’s strife
as we drink to courage…