I am afraid of this early Spring. Apples burning
white hot through the frost; choke-cherries
with faces suffused. The Indian plum
throwing caution to the wind. We have not begun to reckon
what we've set loose. Bareback, we would feel
the muscles moving under our thighs,
the dangerous twitch and surge: but bareback
is a girl's shamefast fantasy, not adult,
as we have learned to call it. We will miss our girls soon enough.
To the east, clouds never seen before
in this valley
build turreted bastions, fortalezas, strong points,
mass piled on mass, till they topple, and the air throbs
and mutters to itself, and the long summer
heaves up over the ridge. This.
We have called on names we only knew in books
and brought a wind to strip the chamber,
scatter and erase the chalk pentangle,
blow books to the walls and break the windows,
and roll the spitting candles to the clothes.
We've called, and they have come. Prepare your welcome.