For winter

My fingers can be violent
in the way they work the earth
desperate claws, seeking order
a stop to so much decay.

But today was different.

Today, I knelt
in the cool wet of morning
wanting only to know
what was there.

My fingers combed grasses, gently
easing the brittle
and broken parts free.

They tucked worms, away
in safe holes
and plucked dead weight
from blossoms to breathe.

They worked steady, and slow
in rhythm with the laws of leaves
while the rest of me bowed down
humble, and in love
with all this evidence of life
with all that had died
in the still, dark soil  of winter.