DIRT AND WORMS

DIRT AND WORMS


November.
In the garden
I swept up the remains
Of our peppers
And tomatoes.
Worms squirmed in the dirt
On the flagstones.
A rancid cucumber
Lay on its side.
Packing up the plant pots
I sighed in my winter boots,
Scarf, gloves.
The sun shone
In a cold blue sky,
Reflecting off
The filthy glass picnic table
Covered in clothes pegs
And geraniums.
I felt sorry for the worms
Muddled in leaves
And bound for bin bag dirt –
Tried to rescue a few.
The rest –
I thought
Would have enough to eat
Before landfill time.
And there-
Plenty of dirt;
Worm heaven.