whose eyes are a fair, spiky green
I only see on my hands
and knees at spring's initial offerings, how
can she help me? I say I seek the bloom
clarity achieves fending off confusion's weedy
waylays upon rich indirection, I hope
I won't be much trouble. Her lips forming
perhaps amusement, she tells me the tongue
of a woodpecker circles its brain
before coming out, and invites me to pursue
further, quietly. Gladly falling
to a whisper, noting a slight
shift in her hips, I wonder might her line be
French, it's the short boyish hair, the poof
in certain gestures of the hand.