Mushrooms

Every misty morning they can pop
They do, and catch me off my guard.
"They're not supposed to be there,"
You can say, "At least, not in my yard."

But I cannot control a single spore,
No, they all float untethered, a chatty
Gossip in the wind, flowering more
And slouching 'round again, thick and fatty.

They rot away but they will never stop
To thrust their heads above the ground,
To laugh and celebrate my failure
As if jesters mischievously crowned.

Still, you must face them and live with it,
Their roots run deeper than I would admit.

Written March 13, Revised 4/26, 4/27