Thirty long winters tilling the fields— blackrime hands, raw and crooked, eyes set in hoarfrost, mouth grim: one more row.
Bent, elbow-deep, blind to the ebonblack sun slipping upward into a charcoal sky, a darker shadow, a blinding light: one more row.
Dove-grey soil under hand, warmed, releases a long sigh and up rises one palegreen sprout: ah.
Thirty more winters for the black sun to rise, melt eyefrost, and bring my flower to bear.
One more row.