A squall is moving in, blotting out
the hills on the north side of the valley.
The fire is hungry, greedily devouring
the day’s supply of wood. I don
my layers and step into the first edge
of the snow to pull more slab wood
from the pile. One plank after another
I hoist it into my arms, carry it in, making
three trips, then four. As I lift the last
piece from the pile, I stop, awed
at the sight before me. There, curled
in a hollow in the wood, rests a tiny
perfect mushroom, looking for all the world
like an embryo waiting to be born.
Life plants itself in such hidden places,
and manages, against all odds,
to keep on keeping on.