budding

march, soon after death had grazed
a rotting hand over my heart,
came gallantly into the year
and stirred another start
her hands were strong and sage
and while they cradled me, a child,
by her sap-soaked barks
I formed my tears into a pile

march, with sooty eyes, could pluck
the burs right from my hair
came with her lily promises
and sung them in my ear
her breast was moist and flush
and while I suckled like a babe,
no coffin once did pass me by,
my feet did tread no grave

march, with rending teeth that tore
and swallowed all my leprosy,
spit back the sun, spit back the moon,
spit back a thousand seeds
into my belly, ripe and huge,
and while I rhythmically breathed,
I felt the labours of the love
that we had so conceived