— for Rich and that pond at Fermilab

It's high noon in May,
the trees are pink and purple
and my heart's first eggs begin to hatch,
detaching one by one from their lustrous clusters
floating on a pond of sun. And
out of each one pops you, you, you
passion's tadpole,
squiggling love song
barreling straight toward me like a baby-faced torpedo
as I frolic on the banks in a gown of lilacs,
spring thumping up and down my spine.
Oh, my heart is a winter tree
split open by love's pink lightning
as you clamber up on land,
a prince in frog's clothing
wide-eyed, dazzling,
moonstruck, leggy
and I leap into your arms as they unfurl like a lily,
babbling your name
in the moist, secret language of May.

Chicago poet Pamela Miller has published three books of poetry, most recently Recipe for Disaster (Mayapple Press, 2003). Her work has been published in many print and online literary magazines and anthologies and has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in Wicked Alice, After Hours, Poetry Super Highway, Rambunctious Review, Solace, and Online Writing: The Best of the First Ten Years. She is currently working on a fourth collection, Miss Unthinkable.