Dream of Spring
Barefoot in the yard, I tingle like a nape when touched.
All around, bees drag their dead from glittering hives.
Here my mind knows its hold as a softness
of matter like a lake, and its thoughts as indentations
on the lake, a near infinite rain.
I think of nothing. Then I think of coming days
I will spend with my knees in the grass,
or making love with the window open.
My hands feel weightless, upturned bodies in a deepening
lake of sunlight.
What should I do with them?
I kneel and push them into the ground,
dig a hole for a bulb. I scrape my palm on a rock
and it bleeds into the soil
(which will bring tomatoes, strawberries). It is good
to be alive. Inside the house, I’ve fallen asleep sad
at the table again. I step through the backdoor
and go to wake myself. With my hand unwashed of dirt
and blood, I reach to touch the back of my neck.