Voyages of a footfall in late November 
in the woods west of Kansas City. Boot tread
the color of faded apple dust, scenting 
like a coon hound the wizened mushroom 
stumps of a wild summer. I’m not quite sure
where I am, until I reach the pond — 
then my black gloved hands gently nurse
a calm hello to the bark of the dogwoods 
that line the scummy lagoon like sentries. 
In the erotic decay of a late afternoon 
I search for the lillies. The yellow ones 
grow here, all the way until first frost. 

Not even the clambering footfalls
of an oafish naturalist can scare them away. 

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