Uncultivable mycelium runs her strands
through the loam of low-lying woodland.
She sleeps most of the year. Treasure-fish.
Sought by pigs. Hungry kids comb woods
in early May, around Derby Day. Every old
hand has a trick for finding them: go
to the widest tree, the poplar or the cottonwood,
and look among its south-facing knees.
Go after a full moon, go after two days of rain,
go when the sun returns and the moon winks.
When I heard someone say, I'm just not inspired
by nature, I smelled dirt. Layers of rot. Last fall's
oak leaves. I want them to hunt with me,
briars tugging at our ankles, spiderwebs
in our hair, for a thing so precious no one
can grow it on purpose. Honey, I want you
to taste pure luck on a spring morning
when a giant lifts her head from the earth
and, like a miracle, overnight bears up
sweeter than the flesh of any fish.
