Mushrooms, those delicate answers
to a vast puzzle buried
from view.
Signature of the bond between
decay and desire.
Every feasible swirl and bend,
all hues embraced by our imagination,
sneaking up on us from behind
a curtain drawn by death.
Healing, deadly, a holy messenger
or swirling with demons, their gifts await our courage.
But I, schooled by my grandpa, trust only morels
rising from some fevered rot
and nothing else,
leaving the multitude a mystery.
By Steve Crowley
Steve Crowley wanders the expansive forest around Oberursel, Germany. In the fall the woods are filled with mushroom hunters, a very respected skill set here in Europe. And, yes, the beer garden menus then feature what’s been found.