A Tax and Toll

The morning has passed

easily enough

amidst the long grass and light

The river is close by but not the mud

and the breeze lifts the curl from your forehead

Hunger has not yet tapped your shoulder

and already your hands are close to full

with the thin stemmed blooms

that grow scattered among the sweet grass.

This is the wealth of spring

woven between your fingers like dripping gold

and it is sweet and right

that is is not for you but for her

that you so plunder the field spring gave graciously.

Noon is coming though and heat to soak the earth.

Homeward turned and almost to the road

but lo

Spring has grown teeth and with a wicked gust

taken a bite from your bouquet

For love is sweet and right

But she has her bite

and takes sometimes the blooms she gave away.