Chanterelle Dreams

Oh forests galore,

soft mossy floor

I walk with care,

then quicken my pace,

searching for a pop of yellow ore.

It must be a myth,

an old wives’ tale.

I’ve never seen such beauty.

And I remain unchanged.

But if I find it, at day’s end

tucked between forgotten tree stumps,

I’ll emerge from a forest changed,

something is different

either the world,

or me,

holding,

the golden dream