This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks, <br />Cut stems struggling to put down feet, <br />What saint strained so much, <br />Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life? <br />I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, <br />In my veins, in my bones I feel it -- <br />The small waters seeping upward, <br />The tight grains parting at last. <br />When sprouts break out, <br />Slippery as fish, <br />I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.<br /><br />Theodore Roethke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cuttings-later/
