Crimini mushrooms, fettucini with sauce--
my forest habitat.
The colorist tints my hair dago red; gone the blonde of my girlfriend.
Haiku, to Welch, is sounds, not syllables, and the audience thanks him.
Rain and how it trumps the sun, exchanges the leaf's shine for rivulets.
Reading Levertov on organic poems I think of squash, yogurt, bread.
Stung by nettles, she cries and applies the underside of swordtail fern.