unwatered

restless as the grass
may grow, an' twisting
naked
under leaves, I woke
to find my past begun
but only for a month
or a day

how did you find

that North-born magnet

you've been combing
through your hair—
these South-shot eyes
are digging, but not taking
any prisoners
to the Western bay

trivially as these
bodies warm,
the Spring is cloaked
but bursting
into tiny tasty dewdrops
that stay on your cheek
until my fingers
glide them away

the dirt is only sometimes wet
since Wetness dares escaping
to the future, twisting
naked,
but the times
beg for blindness,
an' freedom, too,
will have its way;

though the Spring seems quite
Parched
it will all be okay.