The moist air beckons the moss
to green and soften
the bryophyte urges her stalk toward her ginormous sky
grateful for the happenstantial breeze of a nearby butterfly
she opens her capsule, bidding farewell to the spores
awakened by the recent rains, casting out hope for evolutionary favor
The soil, steeped like tea, sends forth her nutrients and nudges sleepy friends
who emerge from unexpected places
with tops of brown, red, and white
birthing their way through the duff
that cradled their latent potential
now skyscrapers against amidst the leafy litter of the forest
mushrooms, born from a fecundity steeped in balance
not too much, not too little
The moss has her gentle breeze
The mushroom has her balance
Breeze and balance
