Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch, <br />Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark, <br />Shoots dangled and drooped, <br />Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates, <br />Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes. <br />And what a congress of stinks!— <br />Roots ripe as old bait, <br />Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, <br />Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks. <br />Nothing would give up life: <br />Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.<br /><br />Theodore Roethke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/root-cellar/
