Spring Love Poem
Silent falling snow blows west to east. I’m wearing everything I own and smoking a joint down to my fingers in the driveway. Tubes full of paper and ash. Orange lichen cling to aspen. Usnea on spruce and pine. Friendly fir. The needles not like needles, blunt like feathers, that feeling that lives in the body of carrying a chicken to slaughter and holding her and loving her whole. Warm little being. Take refuge. Under briars and fallen branches. Beneath roots and dug in. Those places snow doesn’t touch. The snow doesn’t touch me under all the layers I’m wrapped in. I said that already. Gentle, muffled world under blankets. If I fell down the mountain I’d feel nothing but pillow.
Tell me about the bulbs again. The ones already blooming. The lambs in every field. Tell me again about what you’re going to do to me and the color of the ground. Not just something, but everything I’ve been hungry for. Rabbit tracks filling with snow, two feet, then one long one. I only know they are here by their weight in the cold. My mouth filled with smoke. Tell me again about the dog on the bed and the smell coming from the kitchen. About the feel of the bark of the trees in the yard. What are the sheep doing now?
I am blanketed, attempting computer work. The wasp body on the windowsill a tiny painted distraction from emails and spreadsheets. Imagine being small enough. To fly. To come in through a crack in the window and never leave alive. Will you sit in silence beside me as the heater pops and our mouths fill with snow? I could climb a fir for a better view across space. Climb to safety to avoid flooding. Leave sticky, but not scratched, with twigs wrapped in my hair. Out of breath at 10,000 feet. Beneath this mountain, I don’t know what is sleeping. Outside a woodpecker. I’ll call you names until we go to bed. Then in the morning start all over again.