While it is still winter,
while near-darkness at three-o-clock
haunts us with dead voices;
through the naked, ribbed sweep
of turned earth, points of green
needle into the sharp-edged wind.
By snow and hail numbed, green endures
into earth-crumbling March,
reaches up, tentative, tender;
then taller, taller, blows in May and June;
under August, bronzes,
stiffens sinews to lift crowns of gold:
and is cut down.
But the seed, unblemished, remains,
a sacrifice whitening into bread:
and bread, broken for us, is Life.