Someone has pulled back the clay roof from a long storage mound of swedes, letting sunlight spill in for the first time. What it reveals stops the speaker: white, gold, and purple fronds, curled and vivid from their time in the dark. Set against the raw, dripping edge of woods in winter, this simple exposure feels more breathtaking than a famous discovery—a boy crawling into an Egyptian tomb and seeing, by torchlight, the mummy and its treasures for the first time.
But the dead pharaoh just lies there, senseless. The swede pile, by contrast, feels like a living dream stirring in the cold, as sweet as spring. The speaker isn’t merely noticing a crop; he’s struck by the quiet, almost tender gorgeousness of something so ordinary. The mood is reverent but grounded, full of wonder at how the unexpected beauty of a winter root pile can outshine even the most storied riches.