Nothing would sleep in that cellar,
dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting
for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed
crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks,
like tropical snakes,
And what a congress of stinks!
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled
against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life;
Even the dirt kept breathing a
small breath.
--Theodore Roethke