A WOMAN IN SEASON
The last gray crust of snow
breaks up like shadows, she
is loose in a delicate world.
Wanting to suck the
tender tips of twigs,
buds open on her tongue.
From the wet skin of trees
rain drips down on her;
wind ripples her like grass.
Bird song startles her
with echoes, the vibration
of creatures long contained.
She shivers like the ground
at the first thrust of stems.
Poem taken from The Smith No. 2, The last special issue, 1973