A poem by artist and writer Lisa Parsons.

Winter is deep in its spirit of purple;
yet Mahler's earth songs are to be
heard, shrill points on toe of voices;
time took great pain with the faces
of singers of the hoe and shovel;
unfettered angels not to be forgotten.

Charred fingers of old women lay
amid roots of the cedar; ingots of
gold, which peak out of the heavy
soil, once held by men of the country
dreaming of the womb.

Farmers of the deep; workers who
count horses legs as a measure of
their worth; when broken, these
numbers go lickety-split.

One time seasons came and went
as a baby grew to cast off a red
hue; head craggy and dented, it
only knew mother's fingers.