by Ben

Curious that they should be born from forest fires;
discreetly new, anonymous and asexual
in fields of clean grey embers.
Can they remember?
Pocketed like decayed brain cortexes
or miraculous honeycomb – their breath
is as thick and rich as honey, or death.

I wonder if, after the world is burnt,
and the forest’s gone,
the spring,
the bees,
the children,
all gone…
I wonder if morels will grow.