Compost

 

Compost

Always an embarrassment, my father,
a bow-tie guy and president for Pete’s sake
of the Daffodil Society
so when he fenced a corner of the yard
and filled it with yellow bouquets wilted,
with grass clippings and moldy leaves of elm
wafting an odor like an old sponge,
it was another sad fact to hide about my family
until the dry winter day I saw steam rising.

With friend Jimmy I jumped in,
made burrows, caves,
prairie dogs in a warm hill of decay
spreading chaos which my father
must have cleaned later.

Some gone days like wilted bouquets
grow warm.

……

First published in Silver Birch Press— thank you editor Melanie.

Note: An ancient oak tree fell at my children’s school. Workers ran it through a chipper, left a giant pile. After the next rainfall, the mound of wood chips wafted steam. The scent was the trigger. As a child I thought of an old sponge but now the scent so sharp yet rich and deep I recognized as of an old whiskey barrel. I placed my hand inside the mound and yes, so warm. After decades dormant, this memory poured into my cup, and I drank.