The Perfect Hike

Tiny-flowered green moss

soften the faces of cold stones

from a short but fierce winter.

the pathetically rare brilliance of a forest floor

weave mini-streams of microscopial civilizations—

these worlds we’re momentarily yet monstrously invading

there you are

in an orange cotton shirt

popping through the dullness of other people’s shadows.

A perfectly-designed outfit with a matching hat,

covering your delicate, green eyes.

Your water bottle--a new kind of unleaching plastic,

in fashion for avid hikers.

Your distant stare reaches through the fingertips of the trees

Reminding me of when we were younger

(but my footsteps were smaller than yours then)

and you’d look out over the sea with a yearning concern.

Pondering the fears of eternity,

in between wafts of sand and coconut oil suntan lotion,

you’d tell tales of magical lands

stretching as far as the eye could see.

Here in this forest

where humans have not been invited

we walk orderly on the path of hiking trails,

I cringe that we stomp on ferns whose heads have not yet awakened
just to keep up with the pace of the crowd.

Arriving at the end of the lot,
social niceties are shared,

we return to the car where you seem to celebrate the fact

that the world is properly designed

by straight roads with property divisions.

and I wonder

when did you lose your free spirit?