I sift the dirt through

My fingers and make work

Of root, stem, leaf

Gone ginger with fall

And the slow death of desiccation.

I’m not sure what I search

For. Whether it is the hoof

Of a doe that came to me

In a dream or the rapier

Of a nightmare, I don’t know.

The mechanics of my action,

Sorting the earth, the usable,

From fantasy is neverending.

If this ground produces something

After the hard freeze

That will appear in late November

It will be a herald of possibility.

Perhaps a green shoot

Will capture a drop of optimism

In its thready stem and

Awaken my sense

That for all my tilling I can’t

Predict the future