A verdant vase on the casement
Screams SPRING in long-
Winded crocus breaths. Relentlessly,
A bee hurls itself against the mesh
Screen with mounting celerity.

Huddled over my work, 
Fingers cramped around a pen, 
I am determined to write 
Admirably, just once, of love, 
But I am like my droning friend. 

At the sound of moaning, my ears perk 
Up to experience vicarious pleasures. 
At closer inspection, I must laugh. 
It is only doves discussing the merits 
Of hedonism and days drenched in brilliance. 

Somehow—the specifics escape me 
—April heat has managed to accomplish 
In one pellucid afternoon 
What an even-yeared merlot and sex 
Could not patch together all winter: 

I am, once again, my usual, 
Sensual self. I have never been 
hesitant To confess I have fallen in love. 
But as I listen to the angry thuds 
Of one desperate to drink nectar 

(I sit straight upon my spine; 
A febrile gust chills my skin.) 
I know I must command 
From lovers what I demand 
Of myself. I can accept no less.