brown leaves crunch
and scattered under your boots
my sandals
as we search for morels
dry-land fish
near black pond’s rim
where a faded sign reads
“no fishing”
twenty year-oldĀ jar
lies half leaf covered
no mushrooms peep
through, only bomb shell rocks
and brilliant violent
woodland irises
still
we walk, brother and sister
talking of yesterday
remembering parental wisdom
stories, prophecies of long ago years,
breathing in sweet locust
for the moment
and forgetting
tomorrow.