I Didn't Have to Wander Far

Clover is right here beneath me,
woven into grass, good friends.
Old Walt, I suppose, if I were
a grocery boy, a favorite sister, 
a mother of men, as I am, 
would want me to lie down 
here with him, perpendicular,
my head on his chest, both 
of us broken, both of us face up
into this willow where the sun
has travelled all night to throw
a thin, holey blanket over us.
A river breathes through tides
of faceted green, a sway, cooling 
my blood quaking with preemptive 
relief, a soothing reminder, respite
from what's to come. I store 
the chill against oppressive heat 
in my body's deep water, a battery.
Tree roots crawl along the surface, 
snake through grassy clover,
gather what they can, gather me.

2021

with thanks to Rick Kempa for his walking writer's workshop, Riverbend Park, Palisade, CO