This man does not write poetry, but he does play tennis. I think about him a great deal, usually when I am naked.

It’s warm and sunny here in New York and the days are getting longer. I know, it’s only February. I know that the wind is causing all sorts of tragedy. But it IS boobs/chesticles friday. (I think I am the only one not ready to give up boobs/chesticles friday.)  And it has been positively Spring-like here. Time to make babies! I want to make babies with this man to our left. And speaking of baby making, Robert Frost wrote this wonderfully raw poem about Spring-time lust and fecundity:

   PUTTING IN THE SEED

You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea);
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a Springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

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