Winter Harvest

Red beet, you are amongst the dead
housing the stinging nettle,
bearing cold sympathy,
the dead thorned kindle.
Underneath the breath of living,
who graciously digs you out
of the soiled hearth circle?
Carefully inspected for blemish,
you are almost crafted from sameness.
The old earth beetles found rolling
burrowing deep from question.
The starlings fly on north winds
after a blank peck of approval,
wings splayed out in honor
announcing the winter preserve.