If I were to take your mittened hand
and squeeze it like a just-ripe fruit,
I wonder if it would burst—
If the sticky juice of you would
seep through my fingers
so that I could taste
what you are all about.
I wonder if you have seeds—
the watermelon kind— black,
soft-hard eyes buried in the
cheeky pink layers of your scarves,
your hat.
I wonder if you are warm
under my tongue, between
my teeth, sliding on my gums—
the peachy melon taste of papayas.
I wonder if,
inside your January pod,
your skin is tinted amber by the sun.
under your down,
your belly is damp, sweet honey.
Most,
I wonder if you might
(from inside out)
bring me the Spring.
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