A Run of Desires

by Ann Spiers

I

thin snow interweaves

across winter’s grass with strikes

of cedar-thrown shade.

Yes, the sun comes out briefly today,

its shadows long across the snow’s crunch.

Rays of light spark, time stops ticking,

and the ah-ha! sprouts bright wings.

In this flash, I nail Monday’s haiku

that assemble words that lift

beyond into the rush of being alive.

Brief is the flush from haiku, fleeting

as a bolt of fire running the nerves

wrapping my ribs to anchor my spine.

Haiku’s three lines arrive at the edge

between frost and its antithesis, sunshine.

Then a thrush lands to poke the turf,

and the words morph into an alphabet.

II

On the veranda, grape vines drop leaves

that splay like open books left in rain.

The leaves don’t orange this year.

Desire prompts hunger to fill myself,

to gain the weight instilled

in me since conception.

I assemble dolmathes

by starting the long steaming of rice.

I snip winter’s mint and dill broken

into stem and a few bitter leaves.

A little onion. Lemon, lots of lemon.

Blanched, the leaves turn grayish.

I relearn folding leaf around rice.

It all unravels lifted to my mouth

in the suddenness of cooling.

From Wild Cucumber: New and Selected Poems, Chimacum, Washington: Empty Bowl Press, 2025, pages 89–90.