I’ll be flesh and blood and grist,
as stout as a tree, as barbaric
as the kiss from the bisclavret.
Earth is here to stay—no cataclysmic
implosion, no end of space and time.
I’ll be growing cabbages, without weeds,
tippling wine. Dirty fingernails
will be my lot; looking to the sky,
the laconic cowboy, lost in thought.
The final Easter morn, hardly rapturous,
will have no meeting in the clouds;
yet the triumphal procession proceeds
right on schedule, right through town.
We agrarians, I suppose, will lay down
our fronds, then it’s back to pruning
and planning, the late-November span,
the eggplants and pepper, the slow grape
and the aching hand. Our soil, dark
and nutritious; the weather, bright but cold,
lends vigor to our toil, renewal to our world.