It is Spring, darling, and the five feathers
a-tickle in my wits, those five furry antennae
the spun self spins out to the rayed weathers,
twitch and receive new airs. A slight uncanny
ripple stirs the skin. I learn how far
into the threaded wood the young wolf reaches,
his senses trembling, turning hair by hair
the prescience wound in creatures.
It is Spring, and never again perfectly, but always
again as if the language born of things
spoke itself whole, I take days
as if spoken, light as it brings
great green scripts into view. And since my most
green-spoken and green-written tongue is you,
I speak and read my senses, season-tossed,
to their first rushing Logos ringing through
the morning of the world begun,
the first arriving airs
through which the young wolves run
along the quick, cocked to their dowsing ears
and radar noses. Darling, I am slow
and human and the wood outruns my blood.
I fill with tongues I do not wholly know
with instant senses never understood,
tracking my five wits to their deepest den,
where you wait in the first of time again.
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