The only thing — save shamrock green moss girding the base of trees — that begged attention in that silent, decaying woods.
Its globule nature desiccated into angularity,
adding to its alien claim,
and it shone with every orange a flame can throw.
The guide said you were edible,
but, seeing your flaming colors,
I could never convince myself that you wouldn’t taste of orange jelly enough to not spit you out on the ground.
Besides, I won’t say you’ve seen better days,
but you’ve seen less alien days.