Compost (a Winter sonnet)

Frozen mudridge mixes with the snow,
Holds the closure pallet tight against
Crumbly rotting veg that is no more
Visibly discrete-a mushy fence.
Dumping kitchen waste into the bin-
Carrot peelings, onion tops and such-
Hoping for the future growth within
Gardens that receive its finished touch.
Oh, but when my pitchfork opens up
The heart of that frost-covered pile of stuff,
If I bend in for a clear closeup,
In its steamy center’s life enough.
Composting is near to resurrection,
New life coming from garbage collection.


About janemwoodman

Singer, writer, restaurant reviewer, urban farmer, devoted lover of my husband....old and getting happier all the time.
This entry was posted in Gardening, Gardening, Usually Organic, Patience, Poetry, Sonnet. Bookmark the permalink.

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