When they fly back to northern shores,
assemble on the moonlit ice,
after long months of paradise
and call out to the darkening east:

the April Moon is for the Geese

Now that the year has come to Spring,
I want to see the lakeshore,
smell the green, hear birds sing,
taste sunlight in my core,
crown every flower king,
become enraptured and adorned
in sweeping streams, in the bee's sting,
in the haste of the hummingbird's wing,
in the thrill of the rushing spring
of the blooming months, the budding moor.

two figures in a storm:
but the storm is the spray
of the wind on the ice
as it melts in the warmth
of swans in the pale
beneath a full moon,

sweeping the pair
in the calm of the night.

is it uncouth to defile spring so,
with the layering of heavy-laden snow
when I could see the grass,
walk unphased beneath the pass,
taste sweetness in April's blast
of wind infused with scents that grow?

Two pairs of hands:
they coalesce in the drawl,
the duet shaping them
anew.
In the other room,
four bodies, carved by song.

sunflowers, peonies, dandelions, maple trees,
daisies, buttercups, forget-me-nots, lupins,
the lilac bush, white, pink, purple, all over the city for a brief time
the apple blossoms in the dying apple tree,
helicopter leaves on bushes, fragrant pollen for honey bees,
cool air and warm sun, the spray of a windy day on the air,
the smell of summer sun weaving through my hair,
I forget the youth of may, the long sunset-glare
across the lake, the twilight moon, the taste of pear
and fresh strawberries, and the feel of dew
seeping through the mesh of my shoe, freezing my toes,
fires into midnight and fireflies and flights of freedom,
and sublime
woven into spring and summertime.

I've been craving the carved part of me that you carry, dear friend