by the spring

It is the season of hayfields
raked and turned.
We pray for rain,
we pray for drying days
and raise our faces to to praise
purple mulberries
that fall ripe into our hands.

Feet not yet summer tough,
I walk cautiously to meet you
on stained heels
and stubbed toes.

From the spring
we catch cold water
that seeps through rock
and exchange the fruits of the season.

You feed me samples
with raspberry red fingers
that linger on my tongue
with the seduction of salt.

Even the longest day of summer
passes too quickly
and soon it will be apples we bring,
bartering yellows for pinks
in baskets by the spring.
The moon heavy with the harvest
will walk us home.