Spring

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SPRING


Not the thick compost 

of clichés about rebirth, even now


breaking down for next season’s 

rows; not the rattle of seed


packets, baby rabbits clustered

beneath a pallet, promises breaking


between thorns, one per

berry; not even the firm flesh


of the moon's peculiar

moisture, softening of soil


and sudden malaise of the late

frost wilting the tender tips


of our joy. No, the other Spring, wild urge 

which draws the farmer out


to his porch like a kid

ducking beneath the swim rope


to discover just how deep it is, 

ancient hunger uncoiling


to stir the silt beneath

another pair of little feet, kicking.


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