Root Cellar
by Theodore Roethke
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
I love how the dirt is breathing - sometimes in the spring, when living things haven't popped up their heads, and pretty much I have an entire "dirt garden" so far, I imagine the dirt breathing a little, teeming with invisible life.
No comments:
Post a Comment