Песма о палом дрвету

Boat Across the River

We pass a partly fallen tree

who sprouts a village of fungus

translucent and pastel,

pink-orange umbrellas

with shiny wet skin.

A walk in the woods

on a damp day

is everything:

the sex and the rot,

the beginning and the end,

the sweetness and the stink

of life.

View original post