The trees quiver with the tension of bows
drawn tight during their three month dormancy.
The warm breath of cupid far to the south
rustles along the arrow’s lengths kindling
light along the arrows all facing up,
naked to February skies, as like
the Olympians of old they await
the race that ends with them clothed with olive
branches. Now they quiver with naked hope –
the fire which will quicken their sluggish sap –
till Cupid shoots with all the fire of spring.
Here the people sit in rows like the trees,
but silent, smooth, clothed with wood, fur, earbuds,
and faces hardened by long exposure.
Their longing is for their beds but they clothe
it with eyes half open and active thumbs.
Any fire is smothered by their jackets
and any naked hope, we clothe that too.