Mushrooms

I feel the stems of mushrooms like twisted tree trunks; I imagine them pulled from a forest floor, popping up in an emerald humid. Pushed up from the ground, issued from it, each one with its own sense of self. I like to buy them as if I picked them, not wrapped in cellophane but loose, natural. I can plow my hand into a bin or bowl and drop fistfuls into my bag.