We filled buckets of mushrooms
my mother’s grumpy father and I
freshly instructed at ten
what toadstools looked like.
I brought my share home for a panful
of wild slathered in garlic and butter
but got the blame
for my father’s upset stomach.
Back when I was invincible,
riskng chance with circumstance,
I filled buckets on my own
as the ground warmed after rain.
And today, freckled-capped colonies
claiming fresh green beckon me,
pink or brown underneath,
to taste one more time.
drycrikjournal 