Be the mushroom you want to see in the world

Good morning from Rockford. It’s snowing. It’s March and the earth is warming up so the “downy flake” won’t stick around long. But it’ll be here long enough to brighten up the brown.

Spring snow always brings a pale blue light with it and I must warn you: I’m dangerously close to writing a nature poem. But I won’t do that to you because it would be too literal.

Morning, Noon & Night

Snow is falling         
yeast is rising
laundry's tumbling

Neighbor's shoveling
dough is balling
oven's heating


Ice is forming
pizza’s baking
clothes are folding

Wind is shifting
Kids are eating
Dog is waiting


Clouds are moving
Heads are resting
Stars are glowing

Night is covering
Morning's hovering
Peace.

-me 03-07-2022

Instead, I’ll just tell you I’m serving homemade mushroom pizzas for dinner. We love mushrooms over here.

But yesterday I was reading A Promised Land by Barack Obama and he referred to a time he was treated like a mushroom. He wrote that he was “fed shit and kept in the dark.”

Boy, I hate when somebody I admire makes disparaging remarks about something I love. I have enormous respect for Barack Obama and feel a strong sense of loyalty to him but am I supposed to dislike mushrooms now? Because that’s asking too much. I’m dangerously close to writing a poem about feeling conflicted. But I won’t do that because it would be too sad.

However, I will tell you I find it oddly comforting and reassuring that even the former president has been “fed shit and kept in the dark.” I thought that only happened to me. I’m dangerously close to writing a poem about how Barack and I are soulmates.

Instead of that, since I have poetry on my mind, I think I’ll leave you with a poem about women’s rights by Sylvia Plath. You’ll never guess the title.

Mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly
Very quietly
Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam
Acquire the air
Nobody sees us
Stops us, betrays us
The small grains make room
Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles
The leafy bedding
Even the paving
Our hammers, our rams
Earless and eyeless
Perfectly voiceless
Widen the crannies
Shoulder through holes. We
Diet on water
On crumbs of shadow
Bland-mannered, asking
Little or nothing
So many of us!
So many of us!
We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek
We are edible
Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves
Our kind multiplies
We shall by morning
Inherit the earth
Our foot's in the door

-Sylvia Plath

Thanks for reading my blog and, more importantly, the poem by Sylvia Plath. Now if you’ll excuse me, I better get back to the kitchen. Those mushrooms aren’t going to cook themselves. -Connie

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