April Twilights

To the arms of Edith I cling
as a thistle to wind and weather
of soil I taste--
salt-dirt upon a tongue weary of said wind
Spring here-
a crucible
one moment Winter
one moment Summer
and back
again
before noon
during which we will scoop a plate of tender-rich ham to lie
besides field corn and snap peas
bright the dust-motes in slanted rays of shine
hollow the hand but ripe the heart
linen has no give and take
only take and take
this weight of mine which I drape upon shoulders thick
and loved
by
her