In the loam we sleep,
In the cool moist loam,
To the lull of years that pass
And the break of stars.

From the loam, then,
The soft warm loam,
   We rise:
To shape of rose leaf,
Of face and shoulder.

   We stand, then,
   To a whiff of life,
Lifted to the silver of the sun
Over and out of the loam
   A day.