Buried Seeds

The buried seeds drink up the snow,
wheat from the tomb promises bread,
and through the roots of April flow
the green destroyers of the dead.

Wait, wait, hear the flood of frogs
waken night’s desert, streams of sun
water day’s field, dry rotted logs
blossom with mushrooms, one by one.

Up from earth’s dark and hairy floor
rise stalks flame-tipped whose stamens burn
with pollen’s rage until seeds pour
fire through the veins of flesh and fern.