Seasons of the Skin

The beginning was hills, moss-covered stones,

October flowers. I climbed all day,

those damp beginnings. I felt

your arms like roots around me, love

like burdocks clinging to my legs;

the trees cried nothing but wind.

Winter was a crop of bones.

I remember your valley rimed with frost,

the slippery ledges, branches under snow.

I saw that your eyes were ponds of love

locked over with ice. I pecked

for a season into that gaze.

The spring was running. Icicles,

glazed by sunlight, narrowed to a drip,

and the moon shot awkward glances.

A nub of crocus started from your belly;

there was water spinning over stones.

I listened in the green-leaved world.

Then a jay flipped over the pines,

a blue tail flashing. Sunlight

sharpened its edges on the rocks,

and feathery bracken softened your body.

I drew upon you in the heated grass

to see that your eyes were open water.