Slow Walk

a poem writ a few springs ago

Dozens of tiny, puffy spiders,

bright red on an olive moss tree,

busy themselves doing who knows what,

and apparently doing it well.

Although too small to feel with my

clumsy fingertips,

they look to be velvet smooth.

Knowing the desire to touch what may not be,

to feel what cannot be,

I continue with my walk,

content to have at least stopped long enough

to see what could be.

If I could have a job that required long slow walks

through the woods-

any woods close to my Louisville city home-

I think I would take it.

Brisk, heelstomping, leafcrunching hikes

can be enjoyable,

but the Slow Walks are what allow me

to see what could be.

Soon I hear a fluttering just above me

and I stop again,

and thrill to my first sighting this spring

of a redheaded woodpecker

with his flashy formal black and white attire

standing in bold contrast to his brilliant

scarlet scalp.

I pause like a tree and listen and watch,

and then I move on,

but only at a

possum pace.