Over the trough, the long face of the horse,
and croaking dead center in a hoof print,
a toad—all the while the redwing blackbirds
drilling their whistly bells. February,
and a sudden, unearthly spring. God above me,
I am halfway through this field, a feeding,
the season, my life. If it pleases you, then hear me:
what I would ask is ten thousand more afternoons
like this, though doubtless the unkilled fleas, scintillate
and fat, will bedevil the dogs and cats,
and a few, skin-weary, will fall among
the rumpled bedclothes to catch us there,
my lover and me, and marry us done.
But please, just let this long light be garlanded by birds
and the garrulous, sloe-eyed toad.
Let the mare scratch her ear all down the length of me.
Let her breathe where the lick of memory wants.