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Wilting on the ground, the leaves that grew from mud

Compost in the autumn night, caked in dirt and mud

Once a tiny seed the size of a spiders eye

Tumbling to a crack in the ground, now it towers high

Sticky in its growth like beads of amber sweat

A bright light from the east every morning to pay its debt

The fumes of the fungi creeping where its moist

The insects in the nighttime making noises with one voice

Making use of corpses…

Animals that I buried fresh this spring

The roadkill, an investment - an offering that I bring

Harvests by the moon, plumbing the depths of the mulch womb