BREAD

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:



dies;
and is cut down.



But the seed, unblemished, remains,
a sacrifice whitening into bread:



and bread, broken for us, is Life.