Driving through the countyside

during the first few days of April,

blooming forsythias caught my eye,

their flaming golden light

testing credulity like the voice Moses

heard from a burning bush.

I passed a Rubenesque woman, fully clothed,

splayed out face down on a grassy patch

in front of a converted trailer

that no longer rode the road.

At first glance I thought she was dead,

but as I drove by I could see that she was sleeping,

hugging the fecund earth, blissfully embracing it,

welcoming oracular rumblings beneath her,

buried labor pains, promising yet another Spring.