in the fall we ‘barrow all the bitter orbs we couldn’t eat
from treeshade to crowned king, wide-mouthed woman,
our hand-me-down compost heap: an old fridgadaire on its side,
resplendent haven of pill bugs, fruit flies and prophetic worms.
a sharp ear might discern the busy gurgle behind the pestbuzz,
but to plumb the dirt’s depths is to interrupt the hot heat
churning the uncounted pounds of speckled ground apples,
the hot heat that melts them to a fertile puddle we will depend upon.
would you guess that an apple tree’s trash combined with
coffee grounds and paper scraps could home a near future of corn stalks?
we laugh with tools in hand, smirk at decay, we have gained
the old knowledge of muck passed down through the worms.