Someone dumps the dirt for Wendy
Beside her open green house
Of fresh-built cedar standing boxes.
Now where did she get soil like that?
It’s as dark and thick and creamily consistent
As a mound of chocolate pudding.
A plant that can’t set roots in that
Doesn’t deserve its ancestors.
A child who jumps, bare heels first,
Into the pile comes out looking smeared
With black cake icing, delicious midnight.
The guests who get their hands in it,
Ostensibly as helpers filling garden boxes,
Look as if they’d like to lick their fingers.
Only one layer of living between them
And eating such delectably thick dirt directly
And they know it. Berries and root veggies,
Iron-rich greens and pointless flowers
Will be coaxed up, executed, and devoured
With pleasure and no small spice of pride
Soon. Soon.
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