redden at the thought of it,their hands suddenly
trembling on the strings,
all of a sudden a violent
new tenderness at the tips
of their small new breasts.
Their voices rise clear
and unvibratoed
across the lake, pure
as lark calls, simple as water,
soprano, sopranino, alto,
and the blackbirds answer.
And they wonder
what it will be like
to lie with him
beneath the lilacs, in the noon
scorch of the vineyards,
in the cool black shade of the oaks…
It’s dappling all around,
the light is dizzying through the birches,
shards of sunlight quivering the underbellies of the leaves,
the pines breathing their resinous breath—
and in the midst of all this blue,
this dazzle and mottle,
Camille, partridge-plump,
diaphanous in flocked organza
flounced out around her on the grass,
Camille offering her pleasures—
pâté en croûte, to be sure, and poached salmon,
roast chicken, Beaujolais and white Bordeaux,
a tumble of peaches and grapes
and small cheeses spilling
off the irised cloth onto the grass—
but riper still, the promise of her languid
face and throat, her full breasts
for after, under the far-off fir trees,
in the drone of the sated afternoon.
Cool, cerebral, translucid,
the oak-green woods haven
three figures lifted from a classical engraving—
one left naked (though changed into a woman),
the others given beards and frock coats,
a tasselled cap, a riding crop.
The woman, smooth-surfaced and serene,
centres with her apricot flesh the chestnut-greens
and russets of these Ovidian woods.
Her eyes meet ours—
fraternal, brown, companionable,
full of a painterly intelligence
that forestalls lust.
That full-fleshedness of hers, her nakedness,
her plain and competent body—
stable, large-footed, with the big toe sticking out-
offer no crannies for our yearnings to take root in,
our desires, our unhealable lacks.
Envy them the closure of their woods
the reassurance of the flesh,
simple and safe, spared love and need—
just flesh, no fury, lack, or yearning.
It’s springtime—come, my pretty friend,
let’s lie under the greenwood tree.
The hens are clucking, full and round,
dawn is crinkling the rosy sky:
love is coming to claim your hand.
Mars and Venus are back again,
mouth storming mouth; their kisses scald
through vineyard, orchard, sun-scorched plain.
Roses and strawberry vines run wild,
rosy young gods make naked fun.
Come! It’s my tenderness that rules
the new spring flowering all around.
Nature’s in love, all birdkind shrills,
Pan goes a-whistling as he bounds,
the tree frogs chant their wet green calls.
Love died making love in your bed:
Do you remember that rendezvous?
Love died, you’ll raise him from the dead:
He’s coming back to fondle you.
Another spring has gone its way,
Lilacked, and tulipful, and tender.
Adieu, green season, on your way!
Bring back next year your splendour.
In the Botanical Gardens of Paris
(after Henri Julien Rousseau,
