Seed

At the end of the Summer
they bury me,
deep in the dirt,
six measures under.
I hunker down in my
earthen bunker.

Under clay and peat
as the first frosts fall,
ice-powdering fields,
I tuck in deep -
retreat into myself,
dug in beneath

and - Oh! - breathe in the loam,
the warmth of the clod:
dark molasses aroma,
spiced earth sod,
honey and ginger and orange zest
feeding my core in this time of rest.

I will lie here muted,
muffled, blind,
curbed in this hush,
just marking time
till the first green flash pierces the soil
and we continue around this mortal coil.

Then, I'll reach for the sun's rays -
and ache for the sky.