The Pile

A rose in a compost pile, eventually becomes compost.

The Pile

Mere seeds were we, too long ago
buried in a mighty garden
under thorny thickets by
slugs and worms.

The mean Prison Keeper maintains
his Trap for rabbits and hogs and voles,
until all who would enjoy this garden
is tricked to fail at love.

Now all we lived for, hacked
to pieces a dying green,
mixed with brown and shells,
a rose no longer a rose.

Where all was made, now done,
that no serious question
could unlock the secrets
of decomposition.

Like unborn mud under skies
held down, heavy with clouds,
wanting to let go, wanting to
bring on a flood, just beneath
the surface of the cloudy day.

Sweet smell of gardener’s gold,
of weeds kept unborn, of
fungus not slithering among us, of
surviving the scorch of the sun, of
fuller veins and fatter fruit,

Handling drought with courage and confidence
to love, courage to reach up, to
grow and die and rot again,
decomposing into unborn mud under unborn skies,
living to feed tomorrow’s seeds.