February 14

The forest has ended his sulk.
Shadows divide 
a confetti of light;
trees lift 
new branches laden 
to praise a 
beckoning sky.
Bird and beast 
lure 
this turning
of time, 
of season 
from den 
from hollow;
sing and woo 
grass of dirt,
leaf of tree
day of night;
stir the stream warm, 
mix clay
in the spray 
of a tumbling bed,
melt off  the sheets, 
rumpled and wet;
while love takes shape,   
in her unmade bed.



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