What force upon this misbegotten ground–
Chock full of metals foreign to its soil–
Could bring it from a haunted burial ground
Back to its verdant days, with naught but toil?

I have but to breathe and plant my feet
To sense the steady earth beneath my toes
Look up toward the sky which I will meet
Reach for it with my hands and eyes and nose
And leap

With breath that joins, like clouds, the frigid air
My cheeks are roses, frozen red until
I reach the hearth; such life awaits me there
Where I at last escape the winter’s chill