Poem 77 Revised

And why bother with plants in barrows when
—A clay face furrow, flanked and filthy
Droughts the boughs of brightness—
Dark snow in winter hoarding all along
The absence of spring. What now fills
The evening with ink and begs for sleep
For silence
                  There are plants in barrows, surely,
Whole pantries full of patient blue eggs.
Carving spring from the naked woods
By butter knife takes all winter.
Hooves collecting flecks of color in cupboards
To cushion the salient seeds. Blanche beasts
In blank places stir now despite the snow…
While you were sleeping, while you slept.