Primavera

by Heather Swan Rosenthal

For the Father of My Child Tell me, do the wild plums ache before their blossoms burst as I ache now in this eighth bloodless moon? Will they gasp or cry out as their skins tear? And after, will they weep? Our lives have led up to this. As the sun's tangerine lips kiss our day into being, winter recedes. Earth leans toward fire, and the passion ignites. A notorious threesome: soil procreating with light and rain. What more is there than these openings? This bead of light slipping through the crack that separates earth and sky- this explosion of petals from bulging pockets- this fissure in my body opening to what is ours.