Some emergent mushrooms are pulled up by the moon.
Some by the sun.
Or Mars.
By Venus.
Or by an Angel.
Some tough and chewy, grapple on for the long run.
Some are social, aligned like the seats in the balcony.
Curtain rising, caught between my shadow and the sun.
Death comes, from Pluto, in the end.
But the flies and beetles and the microbes settled in for a week of feasting.
Up for a while, down for a while,
before long, up again.
Transformed, not ever ended.