Blades of Glass

Contemplating the blade of grass
grown and growing,
sssSprouted neatly        
-pressed as
glass through uncareful fingertips-
into last years nerves
with patient indifference, endurance
beyond determination, a walnut left unturned
among clumps of green and growing bound
             ... and kissed, she tells me,
by that same strange-perfumed air blown from some great place
that now leaves something of herself on me.

And in this way we've given ourselves to eachother,
& also to the murmuration of starling
grazing mad anarchy, through blades of grass
     ... and something as aimless as
linear time, or,
the spring-fit giggles of,
teenage girls-     still bound
memories flooding and swelling at the scent of those.
first. few. puffs,
acrid.
(or soggy winter acorns seen as such)

to be in it... and to know it,

at the first sight of hyacinths, daffodils
... a man, woman and dog
- all distinctly American,
but the dog-
binging on sun like everything else,
unaware or distracted
- the birds punctuate invisible through all -
and her heat needs me to feel it.

in spring, we are.