Fungicide

A short poem about the sad fate of forest mushrooms...

Fungicide

We walk through the woods,
Mushrooms flatten under our thousands of feet,
Their pungent aroma stealing
The air around us,
A lone thief in the forest.
We walk pursued,
The cold sweat of fear
Drips from our faces
And mates with the dew
Dripping from the trees,
Birthing pools of fear
On the forest floor.
What is our pursuer?
We don’t know,
But will if it finds us.
Until then, we press on quickly
Through the woods,
And mushrooms die.