Each Spring

 

I am done with love but lust

won’t loosen its hold on me

 

not when new leaves shake

and gulls ride thermals

 

calling, and pink flowers

ingest light, fructifying

 

and bed linen hangs on lines

readying fresh nocturnes

 

and song sparrow hides

yet sings

 

to moon rising, a grape

swollen to split

 

if butterfly lands on

mailbox’s red handle —

 

Plants stake out plots

while soil flames, sucking

 

sun draws off shirt

paints upper arm

 

even as eggs, planned, hatch

in nests smaller than a palm

 

presented for a kiss

on beach edged with salt

 

near where cats scream

leaping into balls of fight

 

and firs in city parks

point up and up to stars

 

Done with love, not

sap in me

 

each day higher:

rose heart, orchid eye