And I Would Spill My Seed

Springtime

and there is longing
growing like hunger in my loins
pushing toward the surface,

that I must admit
distracts me. My heart

parched like desert soil

awaits April rains.

It isn't love I need

right now,
but satisfaction.

A romantic interlude
would whet my May flower

appetite,
would bring my bud to leaf,
and send old doubt

new relief.