The weather crouches
and readies herself to leap
into the basin of warmth and rain.
She loosens the towel of winter
at her waist and lets it fall.
I wish I were a lifeguard.
I wish I could loose a shrill blast
from an orange whistle,
seize her wrist,
close the pool:
lock us on the cusp
of the last cold snap,
all because spring is coming
and all the days of it
will slip by
with you in your city
and I in mine.
My hand is empty.
How can I walk
through the garden
and show you
the fresh buds ready to burst?
the purple gillyflower,
the pink ranunculus,
the white lisianthus
with the tips of her petals
dipped in paint?
The bees like little doctors
have begun their rounds,
and today, a grasshopper
tanned his long legs
on the porch rail.
Pause the seasons
until you are here
and I can share these
little beauties of life
I don’t ask much.
Let weather only wait
until we are together again —
then she can dive,
then can spring wash us
in hot greenery,
in the blossom of the sun.
My heart wears yellow sunglasses.
My heart wears satin in blues, wears all the hues
of a flower garden bloomed in finger and paint.
My heart wears galaxies in shades of bruise.
My heart wears cedar faces, my heart chases places
magical and strange, my heart wears card games
my laughing heart laughs, wears song after song
until my heart sleeps and music plays on.
My heart wears long into the night.
My heart wears dizzy the flesh and scent of orange.
My heart wears dizzy in love.
My heart wears wind, wears sand, wears stars,
wears the thousand tail lights of a thousand cars.
The thigh of my heart wears fire;
the hip and shoulder of my heart wears plum.
My heart in my mouth wears desire,
my heart moans slick with desire,
my heart wears my mouth,
but my heart goes north while I go south.
My heart wears away like away is a dress,
and my love for my heart is not little or less
for my heart being elsewhere and away.
My heart will wear yesterday until yesterday becomes
the next day I hold my heart in my hands again
and kiss the lips of my heart
and the throat of my heart,
until I wear my heart and my heart wears me again.
The tabby in the garden by the fence
wriggles low, tweaks his whiskers to sense
the grey dormouse
by the red henhouse
but rain falls sudden and intense:
a bucketful of cloud drops downpour,
so the tabby, bedraggled and poor,
slinks off to dry
his whiskers and sigh
at laughing mouse in henhouse door.