A young boy, elbow-deep in his garden’s soil
uproots fauna and tends instead
fungus and mycelium,
strewn with dead leaves and vines.
The moon, a crescent slim
illuminates him
and the things he fosters,
that which the sun seldom touches.
Yet in the dark, damp, death-ridden dirt
Life takes hold.
Even in this desolate place
things grow.
Amidst the darkness, “fruit” abounds
Within the soil in piles and mounds
Some, though mundane, are oft consumed.
Others, though enticing, spell a taster’s doom.
So while onlookers show disdain and fear
A young boy tends what he holds dear.
He, though strange, faces no plight
and lives forever in delight.
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