And then in the spring,
when tight-fisted buds
release their perfume

scent and spread their velvet
fingers in a come hither wave,
and the woodcocks emerge

from the deep and stirring
woods and ascend in smitten
flight, and the choir of tiny

peepers inflate their musical
bubble throats, do you feel
at that moment the tremors

of the earth spinning in a whorl
of fire and water and sky,
and do you know then

the rousing madness created
by touches as light as the trace
of a gossamer wing, and do you

hear the mating call of the warbler,
chiming and ringing and bursting
into wild and jumbled song,

and then do you find yourself
singing along, like a moonstruck
loony bird, helpless with desire?