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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s