The Way of Compost

I am the twenty-first century man

stopping to gaze at the copter

drifting and heeling overhead

Now the human-powered mower

across the wheat field

the front lawn becomes

by the time it occurs

to me

the grass needs cutting

And on the back forty

handfuls of dog shit

gloved and carted to compost

on the pile

before I can even begin

threshing

Contemplating the odious nature

of farmer guy’s day

I consider the compost

Time to spread some

on this here raised bed

or that one there

And that takes another hour

and that makes two of them

I’ve worked since breakfast

I’m about all done in

ready for a nap

when a plane passes overhead

Dog tracks plane

I track dog

and consider, flying machines

or no, how close

dog and I are

to compost.

(Which, by the way,

is the truly secret language of plants,

the place where they reveal all,

swap DNA and

delight in the dawn)