I thought I met death
in the forest,

one earthy, orange evening.

 

She wore a gown of chanterelle
and seemed to cast a simple spell.

 

From tree to tree she glided,

shaking hands with each.

 

I saw they mourned a fallen kin,
while graciously she shrouded him
in velvet white and blue and black 

and gave each living tree a gift.

 

Kneeling now, to touch the ground
she cast a net of finest lace;

so fine it was invisible

to any who came to the funeral late.

 

As she rose again, 

splendid in her gold, 

she shed a glittering cloud of dust - 

this I did not dare to touch.

 

All night she served the forest
by morning I could see
toadstools of every colour
covering the dead tree.

So it dawned on me:
This was not death! Instead,
this maiden of mercy
and mould
sewed life into the dead.

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