Find the Earth

We’re led by a billowing fog
down the footpath to where the copse goes dark.
We unwind the thread
made of stems and black snow crystals,
hands drifting high over sycamores,
teeth in mineral crush.

Stepping over ages of sediment,
we find the beech trees and the elms,
the briars and the frost,

the morning hours of winter,
before we’re called into dirt.