Three Months

Early October in Lexington
is colder in the mornings,
the brisk air betraying autumn
and reminding me lazy

summer is over. A soupy mist of
arthralgias, myalgias and spleen has begun

to lift, but still fatigued I drag
an unwilling body, a foggy
brain out of sleep. Concentric
indigo rings hang low like Magnolia

branches beneath puffy eyes and propped
above blanched cheeks. Out of habit I

make a fist, then
my juicy blueberry vein
springs up to resist a gloved finger.
Tad finds it easily

(not a challenge, for her or anybody)
and with a pinch the butterfly lands

gracefully to rest awhile. A bright
flash of success, crimson and gaudy
as the maple outside the tiny clinic, briefly
appears and then vanishes. Too soon, too soon it is gone,

flushed forward by an icy stream
for thirty long minutes. Tomorrow, I decide

I will rise earlier still so
it won't be this cold
next time. A tiny cloud of cotton
and my butterfly is gone

and I gently hold pressure on my poor,
abused cubital fossa. (Not all the nurses

are as good as Tad.) I would thank her but she
has disappeared, attending to another student
patient. I exit the tiny clinic with numb hands
clutching my periwinkle peacoat tight.