In the May summerlight
we hold our breath—gasping
for the end of the oily wet cold
and remembering the stains,
like storms, spring always brings.
The body of the world lies there,
wrapped in a sheet as though it
has just made love.
Joints touching at all of the
Skin hot like summer.
It is all so common, we think.
The turning of tides,
the regrowth of green
around the edges. Our souls
built by the boarders of cut grass
and the gusts of heavy, low-hanging
air. Even my breath tastes sweeter
on the back of my tongue.
We are all embryos,
weighted and ready,
to be full term.
To clutch our hands again,
for the first time,
around the dry dessert under our feet.