You grow in sandy soil,
my eager hand plucked you.

No matter: your spore-load
has already dropped from

your tiny amber cap,
bell-shaped. Your smell

reminds me of dreams
and years that won’t talk back.

The rains have come, washing
the earth, and you sing out

to fir trees and grass
blades, lazy dogs getting wet.



About the Author: Jacob Riyeff teaches literature from the early medieval to the postmodern at Marquette University. His first chapbook, Lofsangas: Poems Old and New, was published in 2015 (Franciscan University of Steubenville Press). He lives on the Lower East Side of Milwaukee with his wife and two children.