We say below, without knowing more
than the depth of fingers, a hand,
a spade descending into the soil:
wet and moist where worms and snails
burrowed, where voles or skunks tore
patches in the grass— We all seek
what feels ancestral. Last night
we turned the clocks back an hour;
but even before summer’s end, did you see
how fast the seed shed its garments?
Filament that clung to shrubs, stubborn
beard that caught in the teeth of the rake.