I rake the leaves
I rake the leaves up every fall,
gather the piles in a garbage can,
tote the can and dump them all,
and start the process over again.
The compost pile, high and brown,
rests all winter without care,
until in spring, I dig down
to mine the wealth that's buried there.
That sweet-smelling black gold,
warm from the bottom of the heap,
is like a story still untold,
or the dreams of leaves asleep.
And when I shovel it out upon
the garden where tomatoes grow
and morning glories bloom at dawn,
I think of what the garden knows
of leaves and dreams, how they transform
from lifeless stuff that's hidden deep
into the green and real, newborn.
Dreams grow from my compost heap.
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