Ode to Compost

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.