O mycelia, webbed beneath our feet,
Silent architects of life’s retreat,
In the quiet soil, you weave and wind,
Threads of connection, ancient and kind.
Through shadowed earth, you reach and spread,
Binding the living, nourishing the dead.
A whispered song beneath the trees,
A symphony of roots and leaves.
I bow to you, great weaver of the earth,
Who transforms death to give new birth.
Through your tendrils, the forests speak,
In every branch, in every creek.
You bring the pulse of life to bear,
Showing us how all things share.
The fallen leaf, the decaying bone,
Are part of the whole, never alone.
In deep listening, I hear your call,
Your whispers echo through us all.
Through you, the trees share light and breath,
And even in decay, there is no death.
Interwoven with the pulse of time,
You tell of life’s eternal climb.
From roots to sky, the endless thread,
A bond between the living and the dead.
Then, in your mystery, you rise to bloom—
The fruiting bodies we call mushrooms.
Fragile crowns from hidden veins,
Breaking soil after the rains,
You remind us of what lies below,
A world unseen, yet making life grow.
A fleeting gift, you sprout and fade,
But the web beneath is ever stayed.
You teach us how to bend and blend,
That life and death, in you, transcend.
You show us the interdependence here,
How every being is held so near.
No solitary spark can last,
But in your web, we are steadfast.
Together we rise, together we fall,
In you, mycelia, we are all.
Candice Carver
Beautiful, Candace!