Simply A Mushroom

Sometimes, even a lowly fungus can be beautiful in its own way.
I found this little guy (as in "fungi") hiding behind a rock in Ravenswood Park.

Mushroom
Written by Emily Dickinson

The mushroom is the elf of plants,
At evening it is not;
At morning in a truffled hut
It stops upon a spot

As if it tarried always;
And yet its whole career
Is shorter than a snake's delay,
And fleeter than a tare.

'Tis vegetation's juggler,
The germ of alibi;
Doth like a bubble antedate,
And like a bubble hie.

I feel as if the grass were pleased
To have it intermit;
The surreptitious scion
Of summer's circumspect.

Had nature any outcast face,
Could she a son condemn,
Had nature an Iscariot,
That mushroom,--it is him.

Simply A Mushroom

C_A_B