Witches' Butter

A poem

Witches' Butter brews
     on dead aspen bark,
filled from the fallen forest 
     of frontline trees
that fought this land.

These aspen rot in their unification —
butter melting, 
     dripping, 
          delicious butter.
Standing aspens, still connected, 
     rotting as well —
as witches nip at their toes.

Spreading into roots 
     as if on warm bread,
the grove, 
     infested, 
          spellbound and still —
as it sits smothered in golden, 
     gelatinous, 
          gauze.

Witches’ Butter, Tremella mesenterica.