by John Updike
The fiddlehead ferns down by our pond
stand like the stems of violins
the worms are playing beneath the moss.
Last autumn’s leaves are pierced by shoots
that turn from sickly-pale to green.
All growth’s a slave, and rot is boss.
–John Updike: Collected Poems 1953-1993, p. 178
Collected Poems: 1953-1993