The Forager

by Glen Sorestad

It strikes me as strange that as I grow old
I find myself longing for simple things,
acts that go back to when I was younger.
Some days I think I want to pick mushrooms –
morels perhaps, or chanterelles – fungi
from the woods I used to forage with ease.

What is remembered now is indeed past.
Yes, I do know the pleasure of the hike
to find my secret picking spots can not
prepare me for all the ache of bending;
the steady hands required to wield the knife
are now no longer mine. I must content
myself to mushroom now in memory.

— from Juniper Volume 5, Issue 1