Compost Open House
I sit with back against an ancient oak, straw hat for shade and note book in hand in the garden of an artist’s open-house in the back country. This is a piece of off-the-map heaven I’ve never seen before.
The folk singer, guitar in hand, hair amber soft around her youthful shoulders calls out to me down the hill.
“You look like a picture down there!”
“So do you,” I call back and realize that I feel like a picture. I must be shining. She sure is.
“Well I hope you get inspired.” She says. “You’re sitting by the compost pile you know, and there’s a lot going on in there!” She grins.
I realize my nose is basking in the aromas of all things organic. I write:
Words and ideas
stew around my brain
like scraps of fertile leftovers
in a steamy compost pile
They sift and brew together
like people on a crowded summer’s lawn
waiting for a concert
ripe with perfumed sweat
When the music starts, the heap of soil
rich from man’s beginnings
and his ends
begins to dance and so do I
Life sprouts once again
A poem is born
Jean E. Taddonio