Trail Angel

From twilight, she appeared
with walking stick and pack
no more filthy
than the perfumed foot
she held to my nose-
they called her 'Dirty Peanut.'

She was tall and all collar-bone,
hair the color of red dawn warning.
These woods grew no such flower
and we buzzed about her offering
pie, I sang for her
as others cracked opened beers
and she spoke of Georgia world weary,
aching legs tucked beneath her.

Warm as August,
1,100 miles 'til Maine,
she thanked us and disappeared into the night
as I was called back to city lights
to dream in the glow around her

of pussyfootin' along Katahdin,
she's been waiting (O Seraph!)
and I weep to cleanse her dirty feet.