Fertilisation

Brown bed of earth, still fresh and warm with love,

Now hold me tight

Irradiations, XIV, John Gould Fletcher

It’s time to set ourselves in fertile soil,–
To brace the toil of transfer, thresh
Through wasted weeds with a harvest caress.
Our bodies, bit by frost, are shrunken, frail.

With shovel-hands we’ll dig to loam, once-warm,–
Richer earth exists below
This crystal crust,– depressed with snow
But melting into minerals as we thaw.

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