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.