Friday, May 16, 2014

Suppose it were Friday xcv: the last morels

     If it were up to me, one would not
     harvest the last morels. They hide
     to allow for this discretion, even
     as we pluck all we want in the ten
     days of their season; and when one
     does go back, connoisseurship as a
     mask for greed and aggrandizement,
     I like the experience of an admon-
     ition that reminds an unmasked de-
     sire, that it all has been plumbed
     enough for one season, soil rising
     to gather the share of its origin,
     our truest, deserving connoisseur.

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