This morning I gathered all my waste thoughts,
My softening, seeping fears,
My worries that had begun to swell and smell.
I climbed the path to the compost bin
In the shade, by the shed.
I lifted the lid and chucked them all in.
Later I’ll stir the gooey grievance with sticks
And water it, blackening and slippery.
Then add lime, to warm and sweeten.
In early spring wearing cassock and clogs.
I’ll dig my hands into the chuckling cake,
Heft it all easily into a barrow,
And sprinkle it, a sacrament – bless you, girl –
Over still clinging, mossy gloom. With luck
Poems, fragile and fierce as petals, will unfurl.