Landscape

The season does not leave your limbs,

like a covered field you lie,

and remembering the exultant plough

your sheltered bosom stirs

and whispers warm with rain.

Waiting does not leave your eyes,

your belly is as bright as snow

and there your naked fingers

are spread over the dark flowers

shaking out their roots.

My kiss has not yet left your blood

but slumbers in a stream

within your quiet caves:

listening to the sun it will cry forth,

and burst with leaves, and blossom with a name.