I fold the wealth of compost against the grain
of impoverished earth that is my flower bed
of spoiled seeds.
I till the green gold of pistachio shells,
coffee grounds and filters, celery tips,
onion skin and cabbage leaves—
I blend my retirement fund’s worth of
bagged manure, bat guano and peat moss,
intending to enrich.
I fuse failed riches in memory—
intimations of dead Mother.
Earth and the accused dirty girl cleave
then slip through my fingers,
black as lead before it turns to gold—
subject to my being soiled.