. . . till I feel the earth around the place my head has lain

under winter’s touch, and it crumbles. Slanted weight of clouds.

Reaching with my head and shoulders past the open crust

dried by spring wind. Sun. Tucking through the ground

that has grown its cold inside me, made its waiting into food.

Now I watch the watching dark my light’s long-growing dark makes known.

From Calendars