Mushrooms Poem by James McLain

Standing yea high
it gives a bit before going in
his finger tip does.
Running
it around the edge
not to quickly
though
it ought to her feel like.
An umbrella of moistness
upside down turning it
slowy over was all
that he did.
Without being to wet
out side
bending down it is cool to the touch.
Her best mushrooms are
in a tight
high yellow skirt.
And there is
no doubt now that
this is why most
of the thick
callused handed pickers
come here often after.