Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it spring the issues of life.
As March unveils its well-worn wonders, blunted
by frost-heave cynicism, sleeping senses
prick to life. The nerves of lust are plucked
and sing good-natured sleaze of robins' nests,
worms, spring's own coy dalliance with chill
(the threat of April snow), affairs of cloud.
Dry winter yearnings shed disguise, melt
and trickle in to muddy up the blood.
Now spring's inside me, something I can't wear,
though every year I dream this perfect dress:
roll-in-the-yard skirt, long but barely there,
light cotton, filmy sleeves, a wash of blossoms
from skinny crabapples. Love shows its sprigs,
pulls the truth of breeze across bare legs.