Ode to Compost
By Jane Hyphen
On black frosty nights, hands clutch eggshells:
On precarious paths, clear goop strings do drip,
Down wrists withheld slimed bags of precious peel.
In a dark corner it waits, this god is a darling, nay a darlek.
In inanimate green, it hides its earthly charms within:
And must be worshipped, tended, fed a balanced meal,
In special ways and sung a little song, a quiet prayer.
Crispy autumn leaves, dormed down asleep with slops
Of kitchens, buried between; their fate in faithfull layers.
Pinky gathered worms as pretty, sprinkled vermicelli lay
Atop the beautiful confection, good enough to eat.
This pile of seemly waste’s alive, it squirms throughout,
And mysteries lie deeper, a bamboo stick, an armed poke,
Pulled out like Excalibur, warm to touch, an energy inside.
Beneath is like a dish half done, some way to go, more heat,
Required to speed up time, baptisms of urea poured on top
To steam and penetrate with nitrogen to fluently garrot
The bulky stuff which hangs around for years to only host
Mischievous sums of sleeping mice who dream in their hotel,
Where menus change often and enemies and rain cannot get in.
But oxygen and tiger worms and other tiny things in tiny worlds
Combined, accomplish by slow degrees some alchemy, reducing
All the dirty stuff into a something like black gold to spread around
Upon a cultivated plot to improve the earth, exponentially the mood
Of the investor of waste who walked on frosty nights with eggshells
Clutched, to layer and stir, recycle all the dirty stuff.