Spring Muse
what shall we call this hour
when everything
incites lust:
flowering perfumes,
creatures dancing to seduce and breed.
I remain open to your hands.
lift me into your
blossoming chambers,
give to me the
kiss the poets have known
and I will take your seed.
do not leave me barren,
even a verse will
do: something to stir me
from a chilling slumber.
make me sing.
awaken all my bones like rainfall
on roots after a
drought.
give me a young,
green cocoon
to warm in my
hands until it hatches
and I will release new life into this lush season.
come, I have parted my mouth for a
kiss,
and my fists are
as buds, ready to be loosened.
Song to Spring
come rain, wet the mouths of
lovers’ tongues.
seed, sow their
hearts with words of poets.
let blossoms fall
from their parted lips.
let the fragrance
of passion,
overwhelm their senses.
come cherry and plum,
apple and peach,
open your blooms
as a woman opens.
soon the trees
will be gravid with fruit:
an abundance of much love-making.
Nymphs of Spring
we stumbled
upon them in the orchard,
nymphs calling forth
the trees to awaken,
apple and plum trees
stirred in song.
buds as mouths
opened from slumber,
singing forth fragrance
with wide, open blooms.
Spring Equinox
you lure me
forward and awaken me to birds
announcing the nearness of the sun.
you simply won’t
let me ignore
the way you are
reawakening everything
that has slumbered through Winter.
I rise, and an accumulation
of dust falls from
my eyes,
my covers, the window curtains.
I will join in
your rebirth and no longer hide.
Spring Fever
it is Wednesday
and the mother in me
wants to cradle
you to sleep even as the
day is hot and
running wild.
Wednesday is the
middle, and I believe
we may be stuck in
this:
the middle of
progress
the middle ground
the middle road
the middle of
misinformation
and misdiagnosis.
the damn hump.
and here we are,
ill and discontented,
and I long, as
you, to be comforted—
for the slightest
breath of a cool breeze.
we cannot remember
winter, or chilly
weeks or months in
our delirium.
it has always been
Wednesday and we
have always cried
like babes with a fever,
and even the cool
water has turned
against us—running
lukewarm from
the spigot.
the ice machine is
broken
the air
conditioning, broken,
the lungs, head,
the clock on the wall,
the love of life,
dear god,
the middle of the
week
and everything in
the days before
and hereafter are
with me.
surely I am seeing
the hours rotate
counter clockwise
and it is still
Wednesday
and hot as hell.
Heather McCuen, formerly known as Heather Dearmon, has poetry published in many
publications, including Fall Lines, Kakalak and Free State Review. She has a chapbook of poetry, water unto light (Finishing Line Press 2014). She lives in Lawrenceville, Georgia, USA.
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