By Charles M. Sumid      Copyright 2025      Written 2025

CHARLES:

Bashō-san, look—

beneath this fallen maple,

shelf mushrooms building quiet apartments.

BASHŌ:

Autumn rain—

even the dying tree hosts new life.

CHARLES:

Perfect terraces,

each level claiming its portion of rot.

BASHŌ:

The mushroom knows its place without being taught.

CHARLES:

I’ve watched them for months.

Spring: whispers in bark.

Summer: threading through heartwood.

Now: sudden architecture.

BASHŌ:

kneeling beside the log

What teaches the small fungus to build exactly here?

CHARLES:

The tree calls them.

Some chemical conversation we can’t hear.

“I’m ready. Come help me become soil.”

BASHŌ:

Death as invitation, not ending.

CHARLES:

pointing to mycelium threads

Look—white threads connecting everything underground.

The forest—talking root to root.

BASHŌ:

The visible mushroom—

merely the messenger of deeper conversations.

CHARLES:

We see the fruiting body,

miss the real organism—

miles of thread below.

BASHŌ:

Like poems—

words above ground,

but meaning travels in hidden filaments.

CHARLES:

laughing

You always find the metaphor!

BASHŌ:

touching a small toadstool

Bright red with white spots.

Beautiful and poisonous.

CHARLES:

Amanita. Nature’s warning—

the more gorgeous, the more dangerous.

Even poison protects its territory.

BASHŌ:

The deadly mushroom honest about its nature.

CHARLES:

Unlike us—hiding toxins behind pleasant faces.

BASHŌ:

smiling

The forest teaches better manners than the court.

CHARLES:

Sometimes I wonder if they’re watching—

these patient recyclers,

waiting for our turn.

BASHŌ:

Forest floor—

we are all practicing for the same final lesson.

CHARLES:

standing slowly

Should we head back?

BASHŌ:

bowing to a ring of mushrooms

Evening light—

the fairy ring teaches us where to step.