And this is the part of Spring
where I speckle like an egg.
I gulp sun, pink petals for eyelids.
Through my skin my blood shows
bluish-green like chlorophyll.
Soil finds the cracks in my heels
and blistered hands and expands.
I cannot swallow enough water.
I should wade out in the river
and open my mouth to drink.
I see the tulips, the daffodils,
and can think only of the bulbs,
having forgotten the taste of light,
whole, but waiting in the dark,
something opening, something raw.
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