Soil, as I know it, avidly drinks
the moisture of sweaty palms.
I genuflect to milk earthworms
that jiggle like elongated cow teats.
I have buried cats, even toads
in the front lawn -- victims
of speeding cars. Fish bones go
to the backyard together with leftovers.
No sacrifice is too much
as long as inspiration greens my thumbs.
There are bulbs to plant with the pride
of a mother pushing out cries of newborn.
I have cupped compost over prayer books,
lit fires in autumn while whirling
pagan dance under the sprinkler's
full blast during full moon.
Still my month-old perennials remain
the staple offerings that sate the hunger
of humus. Around the house, like open graves,
my little plots of horror decompose.