Crocus Fingers
Early spring comes after a misplaced winter
in crocus fingers,
impatient to point to the warming sun.
I look up, at their insistence,
tipping back my fervent face
to gulp the liquid light.
I will soak it in. I will carry it in my freckles
and in this blood orange
that you brought me, across four hundred miles.
When you return,
I will offer it all up to you,
in lips, sugared with citrus and a star's promise.