This morning I watched birds – a whole
flock had gathered in our yard, digging
through leaves we still haven’t raked,
scraping up wet moss with their beaks.
It’s an early spring and they are
hungry. Inside for once things are quiet
and I am hungry too: I drink too much coffee,
I open wine at noon. In my belly desire roots
like an early flower, like the cherry trees
confused by February’s rain. You keep
checking the basement to see if it’s flooded /
I keep checking my pockets for something
to do. You want things water proof /
This summer I’d like a pool. Some days
the desire opens more like a pit: dumb
and bottomless and I go looking for ways
to fill it. I am ravenous. If I disturb the birds,
they’ll just fly to someone else’s yard,
some place else wet with dirt and mud.
Later, we can rake the yard together,
clean things up – I still know how to work
when there’s need, how to clutch
a rake’s wooden handle with bare fists,
how to cling to you when it’s cold. If we
look hard enough, I know we’ll find love
still fat like worms under the earth.