Dirt of our Dearth
I was hoping joy would overflow this spring
as usual I’ve wasted another East Wind
it’s been years since I could look at flowers
if not because of cares then illness.
- Yang Wan-Li
How long has it been since I shook
someone’s hand? Just a fist bump,
but mostly, a hug, is what I want.
It’s these months when, as star of bethlehem
false hellebore and waterleaf break soil and drip
seed back to ground,
we hug what was just dead or maybe just asleep.
It’s so easy to keep our palms closed, our arms
locked tight around our own body, but that only
keeps us so warm for so long. We must break
ourselves open and burn our lungs with cold air
before we hug the warmth of another.
We need some belief in embrace.
All I want is someone’s shoulder blade
under my hand, to feel that long bone
through thin t-shirt cloth and to wrap
each other’s bodies chest to chest as we
break ground and the dirt of our dearth falls
on our shoes that are so close together that
I can smell what you had for breakfast
I can hear your breath and when you blink
your eyelashes tickle my cheek, buds blooming.