Don’t Let Them Tame You

Flushed, your head tilts in lament. Thoughts of trees
are imprinted upon you, the quaking aspen

and palmer oak. Oh, Isadora, how you miss the ferns,
bracken and maidenhair,

each frond, where flowers yawn with morning scent,
then inchworm. Now you remember, you weren’t

prepared for this inch by inch evolution, the pinstripe
suit transformation. You’re a creature of wildness,

wilderness—you’ve leaped through forests, twirled
through glens, hung from branches,

swung from limbs, where you caressed the grasses,
whispered your passion to the wind,

“You were once wild here. Don’t let them tame you.”