Mushrooms

The old wives whisper

by each cradle, kind eyes

flashing in the firelight:

dare to cross the fairy ring

and lose an eye or die or

be swept off to fairy realms,

or, worse, be forced to dance

around and round and round,

unable to escape. But me, I think

I’m in the fairy ring, around

and going round for all eternity.

I think perhaps that troupe of

moon-white princelings twirling

hand in hand and toe by toe

in this grove of twilit dream

might just be the portal out.