NATURE Poem: Tremors in Capped earth, by Jeremy Lewis

The mushrooms sprang forward,
jutting caps out of the grass,
dreaming the earth’s breath
could taste fresh linen rain,
a tripped ballet of shadows
in the dusk’s curious dance.

Time lingers—
a woven tapestry of silence
and dreamscape,
softened whispers of yesterday’s sunlight
pour through the knotted foliage,
the synergistic sounds
of an eternal, unclaimed afternoon.

Beneath the sleepy-lidded sky,
they untangle—
ink dripping from broad-tipped fonts
onto a blank page,
the cap’s crown absorbing Latin chants
of Rilke’s lost hours,
and shadows compose their whispered histories
as the light folds in on itself,
crimping the forked edges,
where unseen hands stretch
the hidden thicket.

In this phantom hour,
the turned earth
tilts,
and the mushrooms arch like opaque figures in a fable,
suspended in a liminal space of fractured twilight,
where the grass intertwines into loved shapes,
and the dim light courses life
into smaller trunks,
each precious minute
a fluid reverie
of redefined existence.

Tiny caps, half-formed, severed
by blades that do not wait—
the earth swallows viable tendrils,
the hive mind’s social kindness.

The sky’s yawning cheesecloth tears
as dawn breaks,
its citrus edges seeping
into the mushrooms’ errant forms,
while the morning’s first brush
paints thin fine lines,
tumbling into and through the maze of our thoughts,
where each cap,
like a blessed relic,
silently journals a world
where fabric tears and then mends
the fleeting light.

As day unfolds
the night’s last melodies,
the mushrooms dissolve into the ground-birthed fog,
their caps slipping into the new day’s narrative,
a faded sketch of future fogged memories,
where grass and sky mingle like liquid—
a dammed sigh before
the gathered pond.

Fungi speak in silent tongues,
whispers borne from spores,
a language soft and lost,
where each cap reveals a story in its unseen folds,
and shadows, long and twisted,
write their own memoirs,
unfolding mysteries in the quiet dance of dusk,
as echoes of the past weave through the present.

The painting stretches wide,
hugging the endless haze,
where cap and stem are tied with tales in mind,
silhouettes of stick figures etched in the evening’s air,
the fungal dance a script of unearned grace,
hung by a moment’s transient embrace,
where echoes whisper secrets
into caverns between pines.

The mushrooms sprang forward,
jutting caps out of the grass,
dreaming the earth’s breath
could taste fresh linen rain,
a tripped ballet of shadows
in the dusk’s curious dance