The Rut

I’m the grass in the field
 and she bounces 
off me, 
never trouncing a blade,
like springboards,
 lifting her toes feet
in the air,
 before neatly diving in my soil,
wading through my coiled roots.

Wearing me like a ghillie suit, hunting
my noble bucks, 
as they raise their antlers
up; 
her meander of lilacs drift to wet sniffing nostrils,
moistened by torrential spring storms.

A loud noise,
 
the universe
begins, 
just when my heart
stops—my breath
 and my eyes roll back—in my head 
her summer touch swims,
back stroking my milk thistle spines.

The wind whistles through my dell,
my leaves grow redder.

They tell of our winter;
I freeze her crystals. 

Ephemeral, 
but she gets them every morning.