I think that you are much like Spring.

How, one day, the tree is budless and 

then all at once, without explanation, 

dancing in its pink devotion. The wet, 

delicate dawn lighting its fertile 

detonation. You are like the boisterous

squirrels hurling themselves before my

car’s velocity, darting to propitious 

lovers, violable, sticky, ready to be

shown and shown again. You, 

shadow woman, hole shape, light cut

off, you and your body’s vast excretion 

stopped an orchestra, led it out of its 

theme into your softness, your ticklish

flesh, thighs polarized by your desire. 

You in your exuberant body, halting

the snow. You in all your intimate pieces

finally strung together like a blackberry

or the bear cub footing at his mother’s 

womb, fairy fingers hooding hooves,

my purple tips when I have been about 

the field, plucking from the brush those

plump cherubs, slipping them between

my soft lips, open, like yours. Yes, when

I remember you and your thrumming body, I 

remember the way that animals will always be.