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.