In April...
I'm stuffed in trousers
hung beside the fence
to protect your needs

to groom your seed
in fields where sun
and rain will
make you golden

guard you
nourish you
fertilize you
pick your fruit

when dead come
stack and burn
your field back
to the marriage bed.

Winter children
recreate our being
in snow ball poses
give us broomstick arms,
carrot noses

and our coal-
black eyes the look
of having lost
last fall.

It's spring my love.
I'm back in trousers
stacked against the fence
to wait for your return.