Neath the loamy earth he lay


clothes all wet and soaked with clay.

Biding time ’til sunshine brings

the warmth to reach up into spring.

Brown and ugly, lonely, snuggling, only buried in the garden.

Down and covered, watered, smothered, soon the earth no longer hardened.

Up and up he dreams while sleeping.

Tendrils climbing, grasping, creeping

Green and tender arms of shoots.

For now the wild thing is only roots.