Perhaps this is illegal:
gathering from the state park path
these fans of gold and rust
clustered in sand, in moss,
in last year’s fallen leaves.
If I’ve committed a crime, no one
sees me, not when the dogs and I disturb
the green heron camouflaged beside the creek
or when we watch water cascade
over the cement wall that holds
the lake inside.
With my fingers, I snip
mushrooms at the root,
fill only one small bag
so spores can fall for next year,
for someone else creeping
these isolated trails at early dawn
before humidity can collect its beads
on their skin, for someone else
in the forest alone who craves
this forbidden harvest.
—
Gail Giewont chairs the Literary Arts Department at Appomattox Regional Governor’s School in Petersburg, Virginia. She is an active member of the Poetry Society of Virginia, where she currently serves as membership chair.
