Spring, fool dark seeds to burst with abandon,
etch me in fern fronds of opaline frost,
quicken the riddle of first-light birdsong,
velvet me naive in Swan’s-neck Thyme-moss.
Rouse the river’s copper rocks with snowmelt,
set-square the bone-grey sky with Svalbard geese,
crown granite corries with morning’s lilac,
souse me under clouds of blackthorn’s promise.

First, free me of the blade in winter’s eye
that switches my skin with willow branches,
slices thin days from the shank of long nights.
Remember me as the season passes—
drunk on the ruby bloom of squandered days,
sweetly debauched by the forest’s decay.