and more such lusts erupt
as we shake our manes
and breathe into some semblance
of the selves we had stowed.
Seems long ago!
Like Christmas, full of ghosts,
we may be with the one,
some other, an in between, an unknown,
or under a new moon
alone. For you lucky ones with hands
itching for black dirt,
it’s time for sowing. That ritual flurry
to bear fruit leaves
#5 of 30 poems in 30 days for National Poetry Writing Month, April 2017
Image by John Livzey