The speaker is remembering someone who has died, and the poem imagines that person returning through nature. Roots reach down and bring them "again to the sunlight," and the image shifts to fruit that ripens and splits open to show its seeds. Death here feels less like an ending than a cycle: what is buried comes back as something living, sweet, and able to grow again. The speaker's question, "What strange fruit / bares such strains of sweetness / I may press of you?", mixes wonder with a kind of longing to hold on to what remains.
The second half turns from the landscape to the speaker waking up. The loved one's presence "coalesces" out of sleep, and the poem ends on one small, intimate detail: "your hair upon the pillow." After all the large images of earth, wind, and sun, this quiet picture feels the most personal and the most painful. The mood is tender and hushed, hovering between comfort and grief, as the speaker lingers in the half-light between dream and memory.