Through winter’s laying in and every

early camphored night

we asked what color eyes

would our eyes make—

how much would the brain weigh—

would blood and blood in us

determine flesh and blood.

I read the almanac for signs;

you threw the I Ching

and ordered a parents’ guide.

Now something resists.

Cattails grow like pickets

along the swamp; privets

border the wood and lawn.

You leave our house for projects

spring discovers:

I scrub at the shut-in walls,

store mufflers and gloves against

next winter’s cold.

We live as the farmers live—

one day and then another;

one season humbling the last.

But does the sky behave?

Can the rain hold back? Can the grass?

When you’ve settled the dust

at your bench, when I’ve needled

our wool into drawers, we could

go down by the blackberry copse

where vetch holds cover over

the coming fruit. There

I could make love to you

the way the last

cold snap of winter

touches ground. The farmwives

call such weather luck—

they say berries will spill

from their metal pails

in a rush of flowers,

white and promising

colors of plums.