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novembre 2022   01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30
Hot mushrooms in a little garlic salt.

Warm walnuts.

Cold tangy Kombucha.

What a delight in the early morning.

But it doesn't change the thought.

The flappers are all dead.

Soon, the hippies.

Punksters.

Millennials.

All gone to grow mushrooms.

And feed the trees.

We need them now more than ever.

Stop hogging the blanket.

Comments:


erinfondue at 2019-11-04 17:58 (UTC) (Lien)
Fun fact and possible way to deepen the theme of your poem: Some species of trees nourish brethren stumps with water and sugar via underground networks of roots and fungi. Keeps the stumps alive when they would otherwise be long dead.
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