50

To Harrow Hell

There are roots that the spring rain cannot reach

groping toward resurrection and assent

by the small seed used to rise to human speech.

But these are wise in cleaving to the hint

through numbness, though a million million years

must fade for stem to green or flower to bud.

In this hiatus listening, one hears

such implication as stirs through the blood

toward impossible reply, knows the act

to come, and the futility of haste.

Oh my dear, stone

can be shaped by rain, and the soul’s fact

outlive all silence. Live now, being sown.