By Robert Nicholl
The compost heap in my garden
is a wondrous temple.
It is not a disgusting place of refuse,
but where one thing ends,
and another begins.
Shuffling out each morning,
I leave an offering
like flowers at a grave.
The daily pilgrimage with scraps and fragments,
each one a prayer:
chicken waste, coffee grounds,
vegetable peels and apple cores,
leaves and wood chips—
all manner of things that might have been lost,
but are instead being reborn.
I come with my garden fork
to turn the heap,
to lift the warm interior to the top,
to see the steam rising
in the cold morning.
I hover my hand over the heap,
feeling its hot breath,
breathing in its earthy scent.
Patience is my prayer.
I give to the heap,
whisper a few words,
and wait for a reply.
The heap considers my gift,
consumes what I brought,
and gradually returns
new earth to me.
One day I will commune with the process.
One day I will stop feeding the heap
and become part of it.
I accept this fate,
and so each day I pay my respects.
About the Author:
Robert Nicholl is a homesteader living in the Finger Lakes region of New York. A fine arts painter, father, and amateur astronomer, he now cultivates both gardens and verses, finding poetry in the daily rhythms of tending the land. When not writing, he can be found in his apple orchard or turning compost with a notepad nearby.