Find the Earth

by Alexander Etheridge

We’re led by a billowing fog 

down the footpath to where the copse goes dark.

We unwind the thread 

made of shoots and black snowcrystals.

(. . . 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.