They were a neighborhood
family of mushrooms
living right down by
the side of the house.
I would have trampled
them, but my ecologist
spouse tenderly
brought them in,
cleaned, then
fried them in butter
and Sauvignon Fumé.
A heady smell arose,
woodsy flavors
emerged from the pan.
Those knobby ones
urged me to taste
more. Sure, we’re
cloistered, closed in,
but the morels
made me see that Freud
wasn’t wrong. I mean,
look at them, poking up
out of the ground
like that.
Image credit: Painting by Christopher William Pell inspired by the Marilyn Kallet poem, “The Morels”
Latest posts by Marilyn Kallet (see all)
- The Morels – by Marilyn Kallet - May 17, 2020
- The Biggest Blue Jay – Poem by Marilyn Kallet - April 16, 2020
- For International Holocaust Remembrance Day – Poem by Marilyn Kallet - January 7, 2018