Fool’s Spring

How long will we have? An early frost

is promising but may bring

an early spring. It doesn’t matter.

Never long enough.

It seems there’s no time

to tell him about my summers

without sacrificing

moments cloaked in his arms,

his hips on mine, legs wound together.

Lips . . . mine, his, mine

melting so completely into his,

softer than vanilla ice cream.

The earth lies dormant

while I give myself to him instead of

the flowers. The flowers, the flowers,

The flowers. All the colors of my love

splayed open for the world. It should all

be his, every violet, snapdragon, dahlia, daisy, peony, calla, canna, stargazer, and tiger lily.

But he doesn’t need my colors.

My fragrance and textures

are enough for my lover.

He knows me in the depths of darkness,

and I know him.

When these foolish mortals

curse the darkness,

they know not what they do,

how they interrupt

the black celebration of us,

throwing light

that casts shadows of doubt in me.

I think it’s spring, that I must leave,

so I miserably tear myself

away from his love, spoiling everything

Until the dark chill returns,

and I give myself back to him.