Those Mushrooms Keep Coming Up . . .

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, Mushrooms

Done