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.