To Girls (Section 4, p63)

Four o’clock bells toll for reconciliation:
Bread is sliced.
I immerse my hands in tall grass — earth’s
blood throbs. Everything ripens me . . .
And I think of the sensitive soil where I’ll
sow timid trembling seeds next spring.   
When supple sprouts burst forth
overnight, I probably will cry.
Because the sharp ninth-month arc
will bring me a black-haired boy.
My firstborn son.
That will be my road halfway.
And my very good midday.