He wanted something bright to settle in his hand,
to brush its sunset-colored wings across his cheek.
She gave him white-faced dogs and apples in the fall.
She took him to the winter woods and kissed him there,
making him forget his lust for spring
though he recognized her when she came,
cloaked in speckled furs, a flock of
bubble-throated blackbirds by her side.
Then the solstice with its heavy air
left pollen on his lips and clothes;
he might have seen a new-born butterfly,
if he had turned a milkweed leaf aside.