particularly in winter,
earth is frozen,
bulldozers cannot scrape the surface.
The first snow cover is so bright
I forget what’s underneath.
Nights, though, I hear the ground groaning
as frozen moisture heaves it up.
Then
I know where sap lurks,
cold,
unable to flow.
I know last summer’s seeds
have eyeballs full of brightness,
bellies full of food.
I know the inside of my skin
will shimmer once more under sun.
These times I think I follow the man
who was upset when he could find no figs,
ate wheat raw,
found his church one spring in a new garden.
Phil Flott writes from Omaha, NE.