In Iceland, in early January, when dusk begins at dawn,
alone in a wind-whipped shack, I kneel as though cowering
before my little stove door. Nights are immense, and my coal is black
as night. A geologist
in his lab might be able to say, within a million years or so, just
when and where the coal’s towering source-plants were laid down;
I only know, while waiting for the room to warm, it was very
long ago, and far away.