my compost pile
a year ago it was 6 feet high
branches, leaves, and weeds
some still green
some still trying to grow
sprinkled and filled with dirt; its mortar
seasons later, collapsed, compacted,
a moist three-dimensional web
connecting every grain of sand to every plant and animal cell
living or dead,
weighing itself down,
now not nearly so tall
a light crop of grass and weeds crowns it
cut away on one side, for harvesting of its richness,
its archeology exposed,
layers,
demonstrating that which would rot,
and that which was thicker or more impervious to mold, worms, and the many legged ones
at the foot of the pile
the earth so rich, fluffy, and velvety with organic matter
I can reach right into it
the weeds find no clods to cling to and are easily removed
much of their root structure intact
weeding in this mezcla of dirt and finely decayed plants
with its sensual beauty and superficial resistance
is just the antidote
for one who, in his other life,
finds little easy,
constantly struggling with big problems, resistant problems,
knowing the have-to, but rarely the how-to,
here, a gentle pull lifts the weed,
soil falls from the roots,
fingers comb the soil and rake it to
a lush, level playing field,
once again complete and perfect
engrossed in the earth
appreciating, but not considering the sun,
daylight wanes
and I know yet again
that my calculations of tasks to be completed pre-dusk
are way off
I might have left the fertile composted soil
for another day
but seeds needed planting
if my addiction to sprouts and shoots and leaves and vegetables,
glistening dew drops,
the harvest, bringing fresh colors and smells into the kitchen, and rich flavors onto our plates,
were to be fed
with Edison’s help
seeds of lettuce, onion, arugula and dill
were tucked into a bed of compost
readied for birth on the window sill
as the moon rose ever higher
