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 her husband, Brian, two tuxedo cats, and the ghosts of two dogs. 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 and taking her clothes apart to make different clothes. Her poems have appeared in Thimble, Gyroscope Review, OneArt, Rust & Moth, Lily Poetry Review, Third Wednesday, Halfway Down the Stairs, and other places online and in print.