The mushrooms lead nowhere
But into themselves,
Black stairways that end
In beautiful crevices,
Between damp rocks
And delicate hands.
When you hold them
Their whole drooping story
Fills the air.
You can almost taste them
Musting through your lungs.
It’s the language of deep existence,
Of being rooted to something so big
You don’t believe in edges.
It’s why they are the holy men
Of the forest,
Always humble,
Hooded in prayer.

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Seth Jani currently resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven Circle Press (www.sevencirclepress.com). His own work has been published widely in such places as The Chiron Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific Review, VAYAVYA, Gingerbread House, Gravel and Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry. More about him and his work can be found at www.sethjani.com.