Poverty

The field of clover sowed last fall
takes the March sun, glitters in its bed,
it will be nip-and-tuck if they make it,
the young plants smothered under ice.
I’ve seen them when frost heaves
the crowns and breaks roots, perch
above ground like crows around
a rabbit’s body. This is the time
to worry when one turn of weather
will favor foxtail where
I’d hoped for clover.