Now I understand how grief
is like a mushroom—
how it thrives in dark conditions.
How it springs directly
from what is dead.
Such a curious blossoming thing,
how it rises and unfurls
in spontaneous bourgeoning,
a kingdom all its own.
Like a mushroom,
most of grief is never seen.
It grows and expands beneath everything.
Sometimes it stays dormant for years.
Grief, like a mushroom,
can be almost unbearably beautiful,
even exotic, delicate, veiled,
can arrive in any shape and hue.
It pulls me closer in.
Like a mushroom, grief
asks me to travel to regions
of shadow and dim.
I’m astonished by what I find—
mystery, abundance, insight.
Like a mushroom, grief
can be wildly generative.
Not all growth takes place
in the light.
This poem was published in ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry on 9/11/22
“Not all growth takes place in the light.” Yes, and indeed.
Also like a mushroom, grief can have varied effects when ingested: savoriness, otherworldly visions, gut-wrenching pains, death.
Too, it might also be that griefs are connected by labyrinthine underground networks.
yeah … I had a line in there about it being potentially toxic, potentially nourishing. and mushrooms embody the fifth taste, umami … which seems appropriate …
Oh that last line, so wise. And ‘like a mushroom, most of grief is never seen’, this too resonates. xoxo
I was surprised myself by all the resonances … i began with the comparison and let it emerge and grow in me … like a mushroom!