bone courage

Thirty long winters tilling the fields—
blackrime hands, raw and crooked,
eyes set in hoarfrost,
mouth grim:
one more row.

Bent, elbow-deep, blind to the
ebonblack sun slipping upward into
a charcoal sky, a darker shadow,
a blinding light:
one more row.

Dove-grey soil under hand, warmed,
releases a long sigh and
up rises
one palegreen sprout:
ah.

Thirty more winters for the black sun
to rise, melt eyefrost, and bring
her flower
to bear.

One more row.