By Peter Munro
I ought to compare your beauty to that of tulips
blooming pink, swaying over slender stems. Or I should
liken you to rose petals unfolding to eclipse
any red ever let by thorns that the salt slides good.
But no moon-yellow daffodil could lower her hood
coyly enough to move me, nor irises scumble
wantonly purple enough. No stargazer lily has stood
so girl-slim and fresh that I turned aside or stumbled.
Tricked to flight by unseasonable warmth, bees treble
among tight buds. Late March afflicts your raised bed. Your dirt
charges the air I breathe, the flavors of rains troubled
to soil. There light, seeded in darkness, slowly exerts
forces as old as want. Green unsleeves from bulb and corm.
What courses the world exceeds me as I touch your form.
Peter Munro is a fisheries scientist who works in the Bering Sea, the Gulf of Alaska, the Aleutian Islands, and Seattle. Munro’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in Poetry, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Iowa Review, The Birmingham Poetry Review, Passages North, The Cortland Review, The Valparaiso Poetry Review, Compose, Rattle, and elsewhere. Listen to more of his poems.