The botanist spoke
of the sexual habits of flora,
little fornications on the prairie.
The hook ups sans hang ups.
Plants can talk to each other, she said.
They shush and whisper behind our backs,
telegraphing intentions
along the underfoot exchange,
of fungi fiber networks.
She spoke of The Oak,
the hub of the forest.
Felled, before falling,
casting invitations, warnings.
Entwined mistletoe brought low.
The tree paired well with soil.
It blossomed with age
a tannin-laced banquet bouquet,
its body adorned in rot-ring doilies.
A once hard-hearted bosom now boasted
a center piece of larval led decay,
festooned with fungal feasting,
philandering.
Toadstools engorged,
spored on by mates,
sex and booty calls.
Apparently, the botanist said,
if a tree falls in the forest,
everything knows and raves
but us.
