Compost

Water stained brown of my work boots

out in the backyard Saturday evening,

sun glossed over by a thin curtain sheen

of milky filmy clouds so the evening deepening

glow is bleached out, huff-tired.

The garden is now a series of dead lumps

and dirt clods, tomatoes of yesteryear

pinged and popped by mornings of intense cold and ice

frost, compost pile up at the end of the

garden near the ramshackled lean of

the garage, the pile ever-increasing in its

putrescent magnitude.

Birds twitter out early evening dots and

wiry bleeps and short terrified melodies.

I’ll sing into a microphone tonight.  I’ll

carelessly scratch at the walls.

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(March 29th, 2014)