The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead~ John Keats

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I walk out the door. It’s Monday. It’s April. It’s Central New York. It’s complicated. The wild fields lie flat, the color of wet straw, felled first by frost then snow now sleet and rain and wind. The ground is still stiff with permafrost, daily softening. Nearest the brook lies some hopeful green. Mud season again when the earth speaks in secrets. I find a jawbone, a saucer, a small skull, the bottom of a clay vase. A lawnmower once hidden by waist high burdocks. I don’t hope to recover whats been truly lost, those things that live on in my heart. I don’t hope. It’s enough to collect the bones between snow banks and rocks, between winter and spring.

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