Because every direction I turn in
this morning, the quickening
green of virginal spring
is trilling
in through my nose and welling
up to my eyeballs
making my skin itchy—like sticky supple
tendrils, all brushing my bare forearms
with fresh pricks of envy.
And gradually, my head's gotten
so completely fogged over with jealously
mingled with the dullest ache of apprehension
likely from gazing too hard
at that slick bluehooded
tough gang of grackles diving
fast over the next hill in front of me—probably
after a fresh gaggle of young lady-
bugs.
