Late Spring Poem

Raymond Roseliep

Lying with my face in clover
red as your tongue,
I'm remembering a river
underground
in my thirteenth year,
and the basket a girl made
of green bur
for a wild
flower game.
Tl resurrect
that boy to Maytime
clover you've picked,
he will spring
spring.

        EVE

       Lean,
        love,
        keen
        of
        touch
        on
        flesh,
        bone,
        blood:
        plant
        seed.
        Want.
        Or
        spare.