In Spring

Alone in my cabin for weeks,

I long to be touched

by the sun. Hornets moan

low through the wall while

earth softly dampens.

Frog sacs inflate

and my own throat bubbles

with want. In spring, the whole

forest is green with pleasure—

tadpoles squirming, coiled

fiddleheads, mushrooms

blushing in shade. Everything

a song of seduction.

The carpenter bee amasses

wood shavings in tidy,

unimaginable mounds.

Slick with desire, I am grateful

for the many leering eyes

of the caterpillar, moths

smacking against the glass.

There is not much I miss

from the terrible concrete world—

only you, lying naked

atop the sheet, new hairs

sprouting along your body

as you sleep.