The mulch pile at the Camp Hill
Recycling Center towers ten feet
above my head. Ground-up limbs,
branches, twigs are here for the taking.
Just bring your buckets and your bags
and haul it away. Scatter it
around your shrubs and trees.
Could it be that nothing, nothing
is ever lost? Could it be that everything
passes on to something else, to be
reformed, transformed? Even you,
even me. Even that butterfly over there,
flirting with the black-eyed Susan.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment