One Thread

I break the soil in silence.

I am not born of the sun,
but of the heavy, weeping dark,
fed by what the forest forgot,
nursed by the rot and the mushy, moss-damp floor.

Look at my Cap—a soft, protective arc catching the heavy mist.
It is my crown, my shield of grace,
reminding me that the soul knows how to shelter itself,
when the world grows cold and storms roll in.

Turn me over.
Beneath the shield lie the Gills,
those deep, hidden ridges breathing in the dark.
They hold a million microscopic stars,
then let them fall,
teaching me the quiet art of surrender—
how to release my dreams into the wind,
without looking back,
trusting they will find their own wild ground.

I rise on a fragile Stipe,
a slender axis of water and faith.
It is my spine, my alignment,
lifting my head just high enough above the decay to look at the light.
But the true magic is what you cannot see.

Deep down, where the human eye grows blind,
my Mycelium runs white and wild through the earth.
An endless web of whispers,
connecting the root of the oak to the heart of the pine.

It is the map of our shared spirit,
proving that we are never truly alone—we are just different stems drinking from the very same, eternal well.

✦ ✦ ✦