L'aura del Campo

Where grows the compost heap

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███████          L'aura del campo           ███████

SUMMER: 17 Kalimát (29 July)

'é a lua,  é a lua,  na quintana dos mortos'
♣    Federico García Lorca    ♣

Well I managed to set off the alarm today at work. I didn't last week! So I called Teresa and explained. She was at a very loud picnic out of town. She didn't seem upset, so hopefully there is nothing to fix.

At home I went through clothes sorting out winter and summer and setting aside shirts, socks and underwear to wash. Yes, men do wash . Just not convenient for me at the moment. I've been doing everything by hand.

Once my body is upset it takes hours to calm it down. Hopefully, I'll be fine this evening, in spite of the heat, as I've got a lot to do. Tomorrow I move in with another friend for a week.

████████ Sizzling? Think cool !
████████ Weather where I am: 99º and sunny hot.
████████ Weather for Earl and Judith Anderson: 97º in Tahlequah, Oklahoma.
████████ Weather where I'd rather be: 54º in Tromsø, Norway.

A poem for Duck's contest using 'compost heap' as the item and 'lust' as the emotion. It doesn't seem too lusty to me, but works at a different level. Please comment or go to "Where grows the compost heap"  and leave a comment there. I'm really having trouble finding it a proper title.

Where grows the compost heap

In spring the garden must be tilled,
the weeds removed with care.
The seeds are planted by the moon,
each seedling sent a prayer.
And we rejoice and work till dawn
then fertilize the ground.
And in each other's sweet embrace
love's bound.

The rows are hoed, tomatoes caged,
the peppers tied to sticks.
The corn is watered, pumpkins set,
zucchini must be picked.
And all the refuse gathers where
we've made a compost heap.
And all the clippings go to where
love weeps.

When I have given mine to you
and you have offered thine.
We look to where we've cleared the patch
where grow two leaves entwined.
Eyes meet and warmly drink it in,
we savor this sweet time.
Before the garden calls us back,
love chimes.

We've put the rotten fruits in piles,
attracting ants and swine.
The dirt that clung to roots brings worms,
the morning dew's turned wine.
Each noon the garden paths are cleared,
the turnips tucked in rows.
Now deep within the compost heap
love grows

In autumn and in winter, when
the spring brings forth its thrall,
in summer when all wilts from thirst,
be careful, heed the call.
For at the bottom moisture lays;
at top the grass turns straw.
Through layers of a compost heap,
love gnaws.

The worms begin to multiply;
the grass turns into soil.
The once proud green of innocence
now ripens from their toil.
The heat remains deep in the pile
where heartbeats feel the bake.
And in depths of compost heaps,
love quakes.

And when I've plucked all roots from earth
and you have cut all vines,
we look to where we've cleared the patch
where two leaves grew entwined.
Eyes meet and slowly turn away
remembering the time
when where the compost heap now lies,
love chimed. [163.277]

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