Amanita Muscaria

Babies. Spores. My young. Go and travel. Wind caresses my fertile surfaces. I release my cannon, you leap and kick. My precious billions slough off, carrying our future, spreading into the damp night. Wide awake you unfurl, sticky drops breeze-buffeted along new paths, whirled beyond this patch where I dwell anchored by my filaments. You land and attach on hospitable homes, on the moss-shaded walks, the north sides of trees, beneath the the flat stones, in the beehives, on the bat noses, and the red legs of frogs. Some of you drop on my surface, growing even now, sucking down into me and puffing out your sweet blooming gills. I fold flat as you thrive, melding back into mulch, leaf, mold, loam. Collapsed, I return to earth. Used and gone, I am an empty balloon. Sinking, crumbling, parched. Creped surface. Empty. Dry.