When soon
I touch again the naked grass
It caked in layered frost of grey ground street
And clay of Lancaster brown-girded on its
Many slender leggings

It could the start of summer be

At spring no cake of rotting ice
But clay on slender leggings
No snow to hide and stifle life but spots of clay and grind
And chance for life at angle down the side

As on the side a hole upon my trample
And greenish specks of life