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.