Winter, like a head cold, is waning
beneath the DayQuil and chamomile.
The feeling like we might die, passing
with the clouds over the coast.
A raw season of filth and rain--mud
splattered onto your ankles and shins--
still, we wake before the sun.
Already, the daffodils sprout. Soon,
the figs will erupt and heavy, branches
stretching to the ground, the yard
drying and greening and drying again.
Perhaps I'll plant tomatoes. Perhaps
rosemary. The canal will wake, glitter
poured from dock to dock--the violinist
dancing on his houseboat. Soon.
Cheers to the stars. Cheers to the moon.
Champagne-tipsied, I'd kiss that beautiful man,
with fireworks and sea-salt on my tongue.