So.

Well then, 

spring.

Must be answer enough.
No address, or redress just
A thing of varied length
and tension.
Energy stored up and pushing, 
waiting without patience, without a clock or time.
Spring is and thinks not of what was or will,
could be,
but it is not me.

For I ,yes I -that is the not everything, the not you,
not blossoms or remembered love or half forgotten dreams,
not stories told or names come loose from bodies
burned and scattered in the wind.
This I, much like any eye
is moving while constricting or relaxing
seeking unless dead or drugged;
moving even in sleep, in dreams,
to drink in light
just enough
to engage the world, admit your gaze,
and not be consumed
yet

When death, that rhythmic lover of us all
comes
I will no virgin be.
Just as a spring is born in heat and has compressions and extensions numbered
but unknown.
So is the Iris of my eye,
sprung from a bulb within my chest,
A thing of springs.
And so perhaps even from that rhythmic lover
I will rise
again.

Peter Peteet

Peter Peteet is 54 years old and lives in Atlanta,Ga.His poetry has been published in Flycatcher.