Just This

by JANET MacFADYEN

Finally the sap
begins to flow and peepers eager
in tree-cities start up a thousand tiny
rhythmic saws, a thousand quarter-teaspoons
of delirium spooned out drop by drop
in hemidemisemiquavers of frog
belly, frog sperm, frog spawn, frog
joy and jelly, messaged across woodlands
to waiting lovers: Here here here
I am the tiny green throats declare, not in
flowers still fisted tight in soil, not in oil-
warmed airless walls but here
with full-cheeked slapping thighs
loosed into the waiting darkness, voicing urges
untongued all winter long this, just this.