The Cottage Field

A puddle mistaken for a pond,

orange feet splashing, black beads watching.

Amber set among branches, dark fingers slack.

The new fields trembled in the ashen haze,

under a hemorrhaging spotlight.

A severed vein bleeding orange, red and yellow,

loosening grip to let the ochre fall.

 

Mushrooms lined the deer path,

bulging with spores of russet and cream.

They crowded my wicker basket,

too many for just one slice of

Granny’s homemade toast.