Each Spring

A poem


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