A mushroom resting in the grass that cradles its secretive beauty. I take the mushroom disturbing its rest and hold it in the palm of my hand. It lies there naked. Its life unsupported. Leaving only the warmth of my hand to protect it. It'ts delicate ribbons: a parachute of endless possibilities. It's stem frayed: afraid, confused. A worn antique. Faded and torn. Three droplets of dew lay their heads to sleep on my mushroom. They sink. Life is drowning in my hand.
The Mushroom Bare and alone.
September 1, 2007