Compost Tea
Apparently, there comes a point
when the compost is finished.
Greens for nitrogen:
smiling veggie peelings,
grasses shorn of the earth,
coffee grounds that made mornings
a place I wanted to be.
Browns for carbon:
cardboard that boxed lives,
straw that comforted chickens,
shredded paper from all the vultures
who want to buy my house.
Moisture:
too dry slows it down, too wet
it goes anaerobic and smells
like desperation. Don’t cry
over it.
Air:
microorganisms and bacteria
need oxygen, flip your compost over
like grave dirt to aerate and let it breathe.
When the compost becomes balanced,
growth can begin.
4 thoughts on "Compost Tea"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
I love when a poem can also function as a guidebook. This is both beautiful and instructive
Beautiful metaphor for life: “When a compost becomes balanced, growth can begin.” Reading through your poem is like taking an educational trip that includes a “how to” reach the balance.
A very artistically crafted metaphor.
I agree about the “how to” aspect as well as the fine crafting! Nicely done! Once I sent out a poem with the line “I compose myself.” The editor sent back a note saying that was quite an interesting line. When I reread what I sent, it said “I compost myself.’ Yikes.