The Stills and Rapids of Your Nakedness

The stills and rapids of your nakedness
in the bird-started morning mist of sun
spill from my sleep like April's waking rush
into the groundswell and green push of May.

All days tell this, Season and season, this.
This apple to my mind's eye. This new bread.
This well of living water where the bell
of heaven is. This home's door and first kiss.

Darling, to see your eyes when you, too, stir,
turn all their inner weathers to a smile
I write you this: a jargon in the sky
twitters about your sleep; and like a churning

the dawn beats into gold; and, like a field
the wind turns over, all your body lives
its circling blood; and like the first of leaves,
I start from wood to praise you and grow green.