J. P. Dancing Bear
I was afraid of their tempting rain
and the lusting flowers in my heart.
I felt an ass most of my life under their craft;
always staring at the wrong things—lumps
in my throat, the backs of my hands beginning
to spot with my age.
They pull out of me a spirit long-since
absent. Ghost haunting a younger night,
desireful, restless, burning with a passion-
fire I have learned to dowse.
I say the word love, over again, love,
as though it is a turret I call home.
I cover my head, my eyes, duck low
fearful of the shapes clouds might become.
you bring him plucked wild flowers,
singling one out for his tattered lapel.
In a gust of wind that only effects
his arm, they rise as though offering
you a dance.
Your shadows have already entwined
and here, in the smooth fields of grass
where one season embraces another
you feel compelled to drop the bouquet
and reach for his hand;
to let your dress of clouds carry you
in an orbiting swirl. Here, time has no
offering to interest you. Within the torn
fabric of a man, you see remnants
of the original color
like a dappled sky, over the rolling hills,
stitch grass, the patchwork of shadows;
and you can feel the motion of the land,
till you cannot tell any longer, where cloth
ends and the field begins.