April 9th poem

I absolutely love spring and when I was little one of my favorite things to do was go mushroom hunting.  I always felt like an explorer even though I was less than a mile from my house.  There was always a competition to see who could find the most and the largest morels.  I rarely won, but I loved it anyway.  I didn’t, until later in life, love the taste of them.  The time of the “soft fists” is almost upon us.  Happy hunting.


by Sylvia Plath

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.


One thought on “April 9th poem

  1. Ah mushroom hunting. This is an enjoyable poem. I went as a child with my parents and then as a parent with my children. Some day I hope to continue the hunt with a grandchild!
    It is still a relaxing fun time.

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