9-6 Early April

This is a woody park off Silas Creek Pkway, which I wrote decades ago.

Early April

My soles pound the cinder path
and batter the metal bridge over the creek.
Wet rust reeks on my palms from a chin-up bar.
Sweat stings my eyes.

Spring bursts into pandemonium of Being:

waves of antennae track pheromone beacons
chloroplasts stream in leafy currents
honeysuckle vapor fogs the path under the canopy
joggers and walkers in iridescent skins
orbit the elliptical track

and it ravishes us this morning.