Forgiveness (Sonnet #3)
Egg shells, apple cores, coffee grinds, and more
In a heap, smelling vaguely like old socks.
Time to turn this pile gardeners adore:
Discards and trash morphed into seeds' toy box.
Not everything belongs in this treasure.
No matter the size, rocks will not crumble
Through heat, bacteria, and time's measure:
Nature's intransigence makes one humble.
They go elsewhere to confine, to create--
A seat, a bridge, or simple stepping stone.
They may not foster growth, but fascinate
The eye, the heart, the vista when not thrown.
Like compost, we forgive to readjust
And nourish the soil that grows mutual trust.
|We had bins like this for compost near the greenhouses for my Horticulture class in High School. Too bad I have a black thumb of death!|