There is now,
a dark hand in the garden
chewing sky and earth
to fallow field.
What will we eat, come summer
if spring's bounty lies churned into loam?
What, then, in winter,
after we have gnawed down the paltry bones of famine?
What fertile soil the next season will bring,
sown with the turned-in crop of the last
and the gift of our bodies
and dust and ash.
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