Mushroom Rocket Ships

The moss is a holy blanket
I am a weary traveler off the marked trail

The mushrooms are all beauty warts
on the face of the forest floor

(Earth always found beauty marks
To be rather flattering)

The moss is forest-colored wallpaper
Enough is ripped away to see what is underneath

The mushrooms are ancient castles
Preserved by acts of sheer will and quiet

The moss is the hair
Earth attempts to cut herself

(She was never good
At finding someone to do these things for her)

The mushrooms are fingernails
She bites when we make her nervous

The moss invites me to lay down
And holds all of my body, softly

The mushrooms are rocket ships
Bursting through the underneath

The forest is thick atmosphere
She invites me to catch my breath

I am an orbiting traveler
With no sense of gravity

Waiting my turn
To glimpse at the underneath of it all

By Christina Schmitt

Christina is an artist from Atlanta, GA. Her work is interested in the intersections of spirituality, rest, and celebration. You can find more of her work on her website,