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Sunday, 8 April 2018

Mulch

Tessa Newcomb - Spring Activity


Mulch

There where the punk stump marks
 the end of our yard we've strung
 chickenwire around a six-by-six
 plot of crabgrass In theory
 we apply a nice layer of leaves
 a layer of leftovers like eggshells and coffee grounds
 and then another layer of leaves
 ad infinitum or nauseam whichever
 comes first In practice of course
 we just toss in whatever's at hand:

 sawdust and guacamole corncobs
 and grass cuttings willy-nilly
 in gross disorganization where
 they decay and ooze together
 like some vegetable Dorian Gray
 until in spring and fall we spread it
 below allamanda and oleander
 camellia and azalea choking the weeds
 holding in moisture making
 spectacular over-achievers of them all

 If only we could mulch our own mistakes
 before they harden and stain
 dropping the rinds of argument and affair
 shells of dead dreams nasty shocks
 skins of bad habits lumps of neglect
 and sad pride into a pile
 that bubbles and burns in the dark
 until it's usable and by using
 we'd learn for a change
 and open and soar like
 hollyhocks in a country garden

Peter Meinke

Looking back with regret over my day, this poem hits me in a sore spot. Oh if only. If only these repetitive mistakes could be useful for something. Helpful in some way. What a thought. In the litter of regrets and guilt - is there something productive? In time, bubbling and burning in the dark, could they become "usable"? Lord, I hope so. The only positive thing I can see at the moment is to be kept humble, to be aware of weakness - which might be quite productive now that I think of it.



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