Alone in my cabin for weeks,
I long to be touched
by the sun. Hornets moan
low through the wall while
earth softly dampens.
Frog sacs inflate
and my own throat bubbles
with want. In spring, the whole
forest is green with pleasure—
tadpoles squirming, coiled
fiddleheads, mushrooms
blushing in shade. Everything
a song of seduction.
The carpenter bee amasses
wood shavings in tidy,
unimaginable mounds.
Slick with desire, I am grateful
for the many leering eyes
of the caterpillar, moths
smacking against the glass.
There is not much I miss
from the terrible concrete world—
only you, lying naked
atop the sheet, new hairs
sprouting along your body
as you sleep.