Coming of Spring (Section 1, p17)

My beloved is still sleeping.
Getting light, and outside the window
speckled thrushes are whistling.
Sleep.
I call you my very own Unease, for I can find no
other name for you.
Sleep.

Our hearts — two stones, plunged to the bottom
of a lake.
We’re hungry for each other’s doom and stalk
our first prey like young wolves.
                  _________
You will honor woman and honor her sign — the moon’s
golden sickle on her brow, for I am blessed like fertile soil
on a sowing morning.
I come and go, while in my body sleep your unknown sons
like constellations in the great hand of the night.
I will turn toward the sun, make my offerings, and extend
endless and proud generations.