Barbara Crooker

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Secrets

It's May, and the woods are brimming with phlox,
great splashes of purple, white, mauve. They shimmer
in the shade, light up the thickets of ferns.

But there have been rumors: mountain lions
coming back, smudged tracks in the mud.
A glimpse of tawny tail.

Some wildness at the dark green core.
I cup my hands, inhale deeply, keep looking
over my shoulders. The Jordan Creek plashes

silver, runs over rocks, hums its little
song, won't tell me who's passed by,
whose footprints are shining in the rain.

Copyright (C) Barbara Crooker, 2006. All rights reserved.
Previously appeared in print in The American Poetry Journal