Chilly sun's pouring a path through ash leaves and beckoning me away.
Paths whicker with added crunch through moss-furred rockeries,
Jackdaws coughing overhead.
That's not where it begins or where,
After the explosion of the spores through the loam,
It will feign an ending.
The mahogany nux of a fallen chestnut gathers
The risky phlogiston of the sky's arc above it, beyond the canopy.
I must play my part. I will see it through.