Philosophy of Decay


The gatherers are beaming
over their sacks
having just come down
from the forest
squatting in the drizzle
to inspect their treasure
mushrooms pulled
from the steaming muck
they count bald heads
finger tattered petticoats
taupe sponges
the size of plates
all caressed
in their leaf-loving palms—
enough for several meals.
Behind them, the woods
all those mossy secrets
all those musky jewels
are telling them
that decay
is a form of prayer
that nothing
ever reaches its end.

© Lauren Tivey, 2016.

Note: This poem appeared previously in the now-defunct Negative Suck literary magazine.

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