The mushrooms listen to symphonies of their own,
Songs composed of bold strokes,
Shaking up spores and calling to an atmosphere,
A world away.
The underground earth encloses a million mysteries,
Of roots and fibers,
An incubation in the darkness, waiting for the rains,
Hoping for winds,
With ritual dancing and hypnotic heartbeats,
Calling the sacrificial bodies into the elemental air,
And, casting off their flesh,
With regards to nothing,
Except the wild celebration of renewal and spreading life.
Intoxicated, under the influence of smoke,
And, rainbow oil,
Energizing spicy pheromones, and intentions,
The fluidity of rain water,
The endurance of the green sap running,
Throughout the veins of your leaves,
Caught by your own roots,
Unable to escape the settling clouds,
And, the fogs containing gifts spun by spells,
Uttered between whiffs of potions,
Incense and the echoes of poems,
Words and wishes,
Nothing to do now but float in the forest,
Rock in the wind. Wait for the end.
Watch a golden spider,
Spin a golden web.
Listen to the voices of visions.
Talk to the gods.
Cast out a fishing line.
See what comes by,
And, live right now.