In The Spring

Wolves came.
They did not come to see the flower garden.
Winter's last squall blew at their heels.
They had black faces,
and eyes as yellow as an elk bone.

I was writing a poem--
this poem,
for you,
but wolves came
and I curled myself around the April moon.

I'm sorry if you've come
and not found me here.
I'm sorry there is nothing left but a little blood-
my blood--
on the page,

but if the moon rises,
we'll talk, just as if summer was our favorite season after all;
and should the wolves come for you,
we can still be together, though it won't be the same,
in the fall.
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