Compost this poem.
Take out all the words that remind you of winter,
words that slip frozen into the heart,
bare limbs of words that stick into the sky and shake.
Prune out dead wood;
rough ragged never gonna fruit,
done is done!
Pay attention to what is here,
not what isn’t.
Send your roots into another row or field or bed.
Mow. Rake up all the grass.
Layer, as if you’re expecting hail or a deep frost;
the end of winter is always unpredictable.
Add manure, plenty of manure
and call in the flies, the dung beetles, the worms.
Soon, there will be heat. Steam.
The pile will soften, break down, give in, let go.
Compost winter into spring,
take off those old clothes you’ve been wearing,
the despair like a hat on your head,
dig into the pile,
into the heat and the heart of what matters.
Plant your garden and remember, each year,
everything will be different;
compost what you can.