Like a toadstool springs up
overnight from a dead log,
it was simply there, pure white
against early greening brush
and charcoal trees, crystalized
perhaps from melted snow.
No tracks in surrounding mud,
no sign of its trek from civilization.
No scratch or snag from thorns
despite wild rose and briar already
twining around its legs. It faced
the lowering sun while every tree
in the acre leaned away – beech,
sweet gum, scrubby oak. It took
its place like spring’s
first ashen flower.
White Sofa in the Woods
Margie Duncan lives in NJ with two tuxedo cats, the ghosts of two dogs, and her husband, Brian. When she retired from the business side of academia, she returned to writing poetry and looking out the window. She spends some waking time hiking in the woods. Her poems have appeared in Thimble, OneArt, Rust & Moth, Lily Poetry Review, Gyroscope Review, and Halfway Down the Stairs.