Flo and I Hike Along the Platte
I’m trying to enjoy the burr oak’s golds,
the maple’s reds, but God, these cramps are Hell—
ruining this afternoon just like
so many pairs of panties, bedsheets, nights
that could have broken into blossom if
it wasn’t always autumn in my life.
I want to hike without abandon, see
the pirouetting of vermillion
foliage splashing into flowing streams
that whisk them deeper through the scarlet woods
where deer tracks slip into the gully’s mud.
I want to watch these torrents flush this forest
of its memories, its fallen leaves,
witness how a season of debris
empties at the mouth into the Platte.
I want to feel the magic of this body,
how it makes room within the womb
to bloom again come March, the blossoms
now nothing but a feeling underneath
the surface of this forest’s sodden skin.
I know the sanguine leaves give birth to spring,
but my lady parts are hurting like a bitch.
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