Spring Harvest
A poem.
I have come here to harvest humus
from the rotten bottom of the compost
I left by the apple tree last fall.
Raking away the shrouding cover
of dry leaves reveals the dark heart
of newborn earth.
Leaning into the spade,
I slice through the soil
and lift it into the rusty wheelbarrow.
The apple tree stands by,
her wide boughs bespangled
with white blossoms:
she has thrown herself into spring,
pouring perfume over my head,
and over the greening land,
with no thought to the cost —
a bride beaming beneath her veil,
every night her wedding night.
The bumblebees seem bedazzled;
they float from bough to bough
in reverent attendance, kissing each
blossom once, twice, three times.
The swallows don’t care;
they kite and dive through the sweet air
like children playing chase.
The robins sing, the blackbirds scold,
and…
