Return from Winter

I settled by the buried remains
of acres absent of leaves; in the heart

of winter, I tilled fields. My hands did very little
to pockmarked, half-scarred

earth; I waked
without food and in lucid hours

saw fish frozen as stars, and trees smooth as bone
casting thin shade from a whispering sun.

What was your offering?
I have outgrown gardens,

groomed the undergrowth and watched it wilt.
Yet soon ends an epoch of perfect white;

floods from the mountain tops,
fields turned flat by the thaw.