—
A spading-fork full
of rotting oak leaves, grass clippings,
kitchen scraps, squirming
with earthworms, sow bugs, ants.
A sprouting avocado seed,
its etiolate stem
blindly seeking sunlight,
futile roots knuckling into new humus.
Moldering corn husks and cobs,
reminders of a summer feast.
My father built his bin
beneath my bedroom window.
On warm summer nights
the odors of sweet decay
wafted in.
As I helped him turn and screen
the fibrous mass
he explained his theory
about volcanism in the Aleutian archipelago
and the deep churning
of island-arc subduction.
Years later, his own ashes
spread on a grassy hillside,
I found among his things
the seminal paper and
the brass plaque
his colleagues had made
belatedly honoring his work
and I finally understood
the significance of the minerals
he found in his rock samples,
and the importance of what he did
during the long summer
of my father-hunger.
The fresh compost turned,
my son helps me haul out
last year’s product,
trundle it to the vegetable bed
and spread it on the hungry earth.
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Photo Credit: Getty Images
