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 the tight malaise of the frost

that wilted 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 beginning

to stretch its gills, uncoil beneath


another pair of little feet, kicking. 

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