Compost

I’ve been building my very first compost pile and watching the transformation of food, cardboard, coffee grinds and grass clippings decomposing into tiny, soft, moist fragments of soil, the makings of new life in the waiting.

My words have been buried again. I think they might be decomposing, transforming and preparing to burst into new life.

At least I hope they are.

Some days I think I see them popping up, new shoots, green and tender, fragile. Then I loose sight of them; they are vulnerable to the elements, weeds cropping up, shadowing the buds from the light, stunting their growth.

Will they dig deeper, take hold of the soil, take root and push through? Or will they succumb, again, leaving me to dig out the weeds that choked them, hands charcoaled from the strain?