I Wanted to Write a Poem

I wanted to write a poem¹
about the biology of a mushroom.

I had intended to use scientific terms 
like mycelium and spore dispersal –

not to celebrate the mystery of creation,
but to sound eloquent, wise.

I was adamant that each line be research-based 
with supporting proofs in footnotes,

and a list of references, including obscure mycologists 
aching for public attention. 

But then, as if stirring with some revelation,
I realized what I was attempting to create –

what I had hoped to conceive via facts and fundamentals –
is exactly what poetry is not.

A mushroom in a poem can educate,
but not by lessons on fertilization;

words need not be sound or practical, 
but atypical, if not profound;  

the images drafted – though they may focus 
on isolationism, on seclusion, on secrecy –

are best with a setting not of a forest’s floor, 
but, say, the confinement of inner-city projects for the elderly.

I wanted to write a poem
about what makes a mushroom what it is.

But what it is, is boundless. 

^{1 The phrase “I wanted to write a poem / about the” was borrowed from Tony Hoagland’s poem “The Wetness” (“I wanted to write a simple poem / about the”)}