The Stones’ Breath Soaks My Sleeves

All lost from the start,
By the end of spring,
When not two days passed
That met with a soul—
Then from bad to worse.

The case could be made
It was the worst year
For game or wild plants—
Not mere want of food
But life on bare ground,

Starved to death with cold.
Months or more to spread,
Salt at a low tide,
Full of slime and filth,
Months to dig a well

In the fort that drew.
And the death rate rose.
Faith fetched a fair price
But walked a fine line,
A trade deal gone wrong

Both for them and us,
And the frost so sharp
That half of us died.
Could we move our fields?
Could we store more food?