Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

The back door faces north. The pail I left

in the rain has formed a hoop of dirty ice,

dry and hard as iron. The air’s a vice

that clamps the ribs and almost stops the breath.

I’m planting garlic. Soil, forked over only

yesterday, is rigid now; the spade strikes

and sings aloud, as though I had hit stone.

With cold red fingers I tamp in the moonlike

cloves, carefully set them in fresh compost

from my heap, which, even in this freezing

season, is warm and sweet. I chop with my trowel

at lumps, trying to form a tilth; kneeling

in white rime I imagine summer’s tossed

lettuce, endives, capers, vinegar, olive oil.