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        I ILOUtrG A STmI'D TG' Tt'P iMURW      -     '
Winter will not release itr icy. trip,
Though tho chilly blasts slowly cease.
The wind whistles, the snow blows and piles-
But in my world of the future, I open a door-
My gardon is ,in full bloomsi  and on nhoad      -
The fruit hangs heavily on prolific trces and vines.
I plough a straight black furrow.
The rich dark soil heaves lightly away,
And crumbles' into anmollow soed-bod.
My heart is light and carofroo
As we slowly mako the rounds.
The pungent odor of fresh turned soil is intoxicating
And mrmlos me fool slightly giddy.
I loan on the plough and look ahead.
I watdch tho long straight towas of doop green corn,
Bonding with the gentle summor wind.
                             - Vincent Kuharic - 139
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