False Chantrelles

He said he’d never been mushroom hunting.

So we went.

Slipping thru pine needle canals between islands of moss,

Supersaturated green.

Eyes moving to port and starboard,

A lighthouse beacon,

On the watch for that 

Very special something,

Very special someone,

And then

Gold

Tingles up my spine,

Running forward to investigate,

A brilliant orange on forest floor.

I grab.

Hold to nose.

“What did you find?” he asks

Suddenly there at my shoulder,

But something is not right.

It smells too clean and indistinct.

The thick pungent scent of ripe apricots nowhere to be found,

An imposter, 

Fools gold.

My heart sinks.

I turn, eyes meeting eyes.

I avert.

Notice how his beard is too cleanly trimmed

His uncalloused hands seem out of place here.

I realize vaguely that he has told a joke.

I laugh politely.

And we head back,

Eyes still scanning to port and starboard.

But deep in the ocean of my mind,

Plates collide,

Forming chaotic ridges,

Like the jaunty gills of the true chanterelle.

And welling up at my center,

A hot orange magma,

Burning away all that is false 

And leaving behind

A chance.

The hope to taste the true tomorrow.