Rich Black Mulch

May 8 2019

On a cold spring day

I can feel the heat

rising up from the compost

like some living breathing creature.

In this unchanging container, fixed in place,

such multitudes

of tiny invisible beings

seething with life.

Just as a plump caterpillar

     —   all pulpy gut and stinging bristles   —

is furiously at work

inside its plain brown pupa,

moving molecules

combining atoms

reverting to some elemental form.

Until it emerges

from its unassuming nest

as a delicately poised beauty;

balanced

on long thin legs,

iridescent wings

spread-out to dry.

Because nothing in nature is wasted.

Energy conserved

matter transformed

the living and dead reborn;

as kitchen scraps

are reduced to soil,

tomatoes

conjured from light.

I bury my hands

in rich black mulch,

its penetrating heat

in the weak spring sun.

Squeeze it through my fingers,

mix it

with sweet April air.

It's been a long hard winter,

and in sheltered patches

remnants of snow persist.

But the compost is warm

and the garden soil lives.

Because tucked against the embankment

the first green tips

are breaking through the earth.

Early crocuses, tough and tapered and stiff

that are built to resist the cold,

the nightly frost, unseasonable snow

we expect this time of year.

The life force

of this blue and green planet

on its predetermined path,

tilting towards the sun

as it slowly steadily warms.