dryad saddle

we go into the woods to find
where they are hiding their tongues.
crouching in a walnut's tooth gaps.
the whistling ghosts. we put our ears
to the dirt to hear the mushrooms
sharing love poems. when people hear
that mushrooms talk they always assume
they're conspiring. i think that's because
when humans talks quietly it is often
to destroy one another. no, the mushrooms
they are giving each other new names
& sewing holes in ghost deer faces.
together they invent new religions 
to give the trees who rejoice. the trees are
always looking for something new to worship.
gods without teeth or eyes. gods 
in the water. you tell me the mushrooms 
we are conversing with are called "dryad saddles."
the mushrooms enjoy that & add the name
to their growing list. i wish i could
hear a tree fall & think, "soon that will be 
home." i do not have mycelium
to extend & use to hear your memories. 
i do not have gills or spores to spit
like little messengers. instead, i have knees
that flip like coins. heads or tails?
the mushrooms take pity on us.
together, they sing one of the oldest songs.
it sound like breeze & falling rocks.
then, i hear horses of wood. the birth of
a new tree. seed unfurling. a faint neck.
we leave & the mushrooms say,
"one day, one day" by which they mean
one day we will be part of them.