Monday, October 29, 2012

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

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)

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