A Plethora Of Riches 1997

A Plethora of Riches

 

I’m tired of picking mushrooms:

They’re everywhere,

And every time I step outside to get the post

Or take a stroll to someone’s house,

My mushroom-oriented eye espies

A fare, free as the air:

Spicy, fruity, nutty-scented,

King’s ambrosia, restaurants prize: Giants!

Size of dinner plate or coffee cup,

So stopping, stooping, take them up.

“Aha, a group for mushroom soup!”

My counter’s filled with peelings:

Stem and cap and earth and spore.

Swamped (a pun).  No more! No more!

On forest floor or in the ditches,

Inundated by these riches,

I can’t seem to rid myself,

Reduce the pile or shrink the stock;

My freezer’s full. They’re chock-a-block

On every shelf,

And every time I serve a plate,

Scores of upstarts wait outside

And I, who suffer from

A lack of will to not bend down

Wind up reloaded.  Mushrooms come

From all directions: Nature’s crown.

Arlene thinks she well may drown

In fungi she can’t name in English,

But, which costly, hunted dish –

Cherished food to fry or bake

With meat or fish, in soup or quiche –

Is there within a finger’s reach.

And I, ungrateful, maybe selfish,

Feeling I’ve a stomach-ache,

Sit panting for the season’s break.

The plethora encroaches.

 

A Plethora Of Riches 10.1.1997

Circling Round Nature;

Arlene Corwin

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