Forward, past the Ides of March–
boots pack soil and cake themselves.
Robins hop for worms again,
moist soil clinging to their beaks.
Seedlings punch their garden womb,
drink the sun, spread their roots.
There is death among us now,
it never shrinks or fades.
But right this minute,
are warming their wings
to take to the sky
and leave their shadows on the ground,
where the reaper keeps what he sows.