Writers’ Weir: Limericks of Mushroom Hunters

A musky smell fills the air

It’s a cap and stem fanfare

With their pungent taste

We gather in haste

For they’re gone once snow is there.

Trod across moss-laden grounds

Basket in hand for what’s found

Gather autumn feasts

Shared by man and beast

In colors and shapes abound.

The woodland calls in the fall

‘Shroomers come out one and all

Hidden under leaves

And evergreen eaves

Suppers made from earthly hauls.