Classic Poem

A wet gray day — rain falling slowly, mist over the
— — valley, mountains dark circumflex smudges in the distance —

Apple blossoms just gone by, the branches feathery still
— — as if fluttering with half-visible antennae —

A day in May like so many in these green mountains, and
— — I went out just as I had last year

At the same time, and found them there under the big maples —
— — by the bend in the road — right where they had stood

Last year and the year before that, risen from the dark duff
— — of the woods, emerging at odd angles

From spores hidden by curled and matted leaves, a fringe of
— — rain on the grass around them,

Beads of rain on the mounded leaves and mosses round them,

Not in a ring themselves but ringed by jack-in-the-pulpits
— — with deep eggplant-colored stripes;

Not ringed but rare, not gilled but polyp-like, having sprung up overnight —

These mushrooms of the gods, resembling human organs
— — uprooted, rooted only on the air,

Looking like lungs wrenched from the human body, lungs
— — reversed, not breathing internally

But being the externalization of breath itself, these spicy, twisted cones,

These perforated brown-white asparagus tips — these morels,
— — smelling of wet graham crackers mixed with maple leaves;

And, reaching down by the pale green fern shoots, I nipped
— — their pulpy stems at the base

And dropped them into a paper bag — a damp brown bag (their
— — color) — and carried

Them (weighing absolutely nothing) down the hill and into
— — the house; you held them

Under cold bubbling water and sliced them with a surgeon's
— — stroke clean through,

And sauteed them over a low flame, butter-brown; and we ate
— — them then and there —

Tasting of the sweet damp woods and of the rain one inch
— — above the meadow:

It was like feasting upon air.