Spring Fever

The desire in the old man's mind
is a stone anchor

that keeps his bony feet tethered
to the home place, dirt and all:

to own the first intruding green
he sees, the almost gold

that should burst to green
during his daily watch.

He must not miss the moment,
fears it may come forth

at once, like sudden water:
pouring, seamless.

His craving appears each spring.
He suspects this must be by design,

simple and meant to be, the way
morning overtakes the brightest moon.

Otherwise he would be able;
unpossessed, he would turn away,

freed to leave the garden.