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 late

frost wilting the tender tips


of our joy. No, the other Spring,

wild urge which draws us out


to porches the way we'd duck

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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