If Spring Were a Lover

I.

Nubile, green, still wet
behind the ears, she wears
the prettiest flowers.

Upon her chest, she presses
dead leaves and young grass,
pushes up against the cold
expanse, shadowing her.

Budding bulbs in her hands,
she dons pants made of slick,
wet mornings.

II.

She flirts a lot.

Dripping colors, she makes
a brief appearance to greet the guests,
to say hello and make them love her
again, begin to depend upon her presence.

Then she retreats, takes with her
a flirty smile and warm breath.

III.

It has been two hundred and seventy-three
days since I last saw her.

She showed up when I wasn’t expecting,
knocked on my front door and asked,
What are you doing?

I wasn’t doing anything, but
I didn’t want her to know,

how I’d been doing nothing
but waiting for her return.

I wanted to be busy.

I’m working, I wanted to say.
I’m too busy for you.


I wanted pens to fall from
behind my ink-stained ears.

I wanted papers to be stuck to me.

I wanted to shout,
I’m writing. Leave me alone.

But I had been waiting,

for when she would show her face again,
for when I would see her and thaw.

IV.

She’s beautiful and messed up.

She says all the right things—
I love you
I missed you
I didn’t mean to hurt you.

But she lies to herself
about her own limitations.

She can be around
only some of the time.

It’s her nature,
who she is:

the girl who never fails to make me ache,
the one whose name I take upon my lips,
the word that slips from my mouth,
the dark, fertile hands on my hips,

the face I forget
is more beautiful
than I remember.

V.

On the twenty first of the month,
she knocked on my window.

Scared the wits out of me
the way she was suddenly there.

Smiling and goofy-looking, she
produced a hand spade and clippers.

Let’s work in the garden, she suggested.

It’s too early to work in the garden, I complained.

She ignored me, began to cut away the dead
stems from the flowers, brushed back
the leaves covering the budding plants.

I put my hands in the dirt, dug
around a weed and pulled.

Why are you crying? She asked.

VI.

She pushes up the beginning
with her hips, holds me there
in her heat, pulls back,
and lets me cool off,
only to do it again and again.

VII.

She will leave me
and return when I have lost all
belief in warmth and lengthening days.

She will offer me wild flowers
and weeds pulled at the roots, dirt
dangling from the thin, threaded knots
she’s wreaked havoc upon.

She will laugh at my reluctance,
remind me she has only so much time.

She will frame my face with her
soiled hands, smudge
dirt across my cheeks,
and smile.

I will follow her into the garden.