A tough patchy crust but the crocuses
and robins do not mind. There is enough
sun in the soil to survive. Winter
asks what we will burn, what we'll keep alive.
Spring finds what will take root and what will fly.
Holed up in darker corners of the earth
the dead, or so we think, remain unmoved
by new light as it filters through the trees'
new budded shoots. But, oh, how rooted things
do move! The sweetly buried come to me
by dream. By dream I build my garden here,
wait for the snow to sink, for buried life
to blast the crust, to rise and drink the sky.
Oh, how my lips would take that clear cold wine!
sonnet, yo.
About Me
- K Magill
- My attention span is rarely long enough for me to sit through a whole movie, but I can sit for hours on end doing absolutely nothing. I read too much, mostly poetry, and write not enough, mostly poetry. There are very few professions I truly respect; farming and teaching are the two that come to mind. I find the mountains and the valleys equally compelling. I'm so done with cities. I can touch my nose with my tongue. I wish I could walk everywhere, though I do like to ride my bicycle. Someday I'm going to build my own house.
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