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  • Writer's pictureandrew jeter

White Mushrooms

from Ancient Memories

After the leaves have dropped,

and the wind shifts in from the North,

after the pumpkins have all

withered on limestone stoops

and I’ve managed to put away

the garden fountain,

tucking the ancient green

Chinese pot

away in any old corner,

the snow comes

on inconvenient days,

Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays,

days of work and driving and being

out in it.

This year, the first snow of December

came earlier and heavier

than many of us can remember.

Rounded piles of snow built up on

picnic tables

trash cans,

forgotten garden gnomes,

little, decorative shrubs

planted and pampered

through long, humid

summer days

buried now


white mushrooms.

When I let my dog

out in it,

billions of fresh, fallen crystals,

on that dark Thursday morning,

she got right to work,

sniffing each flake,

rooting out

buried treasure,

while I stood in the doorway,

in my red flannel robe,

clutching a cup of black coffee,

peering at yesterday

covered over.

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