(With apologies to Robert Frost)
My black, mesh picking bag is hanging by the door, Mushroom scented now
My Nikon sits upon the window sill,
Its memory card with hardly room for more.
The mushrooms are still out there for the deer
but I’m done picking morels for this year.
For I have have had too much
of morel picking; I am overtired
of the great harvest I myself desired.
The dehydrator yellow-stained with spores,
trays all empty now.
Large Rubbermaid containers now are stuffed
with morels; packed away in pantry drawers.
Others may stumble on my spots I fear,
but I’m done picking morels for this year.
