It’s spring
and the deer that died on the ice
amid a stippling
of bloody paw prints
and strutting crows
has finally fallen through
to the meaning and the murk
and the muddiness
of pond.
It’s spring
and the lemon verbena
we planted by mistake
three seasons ago
already is green
when I rake out last year’s soggy leaves —
poised to clog up
the garden
by the lush of late July.
It’s spring
and the women are touching
their winter paunches
in front of their bedroom mirrors
as they tug
their bikinis into place.
They begin to do without
in this burgeoning, this bounty,
this time of fat and plenty.
