The Manure Pile

Out the wood window behind the cow,

the window you pulled to throw it through,

the pile of manure grew winter-long,

Capped in brown, mornings and evenings,

otherwise white, but hot as blazes just inside,

you knew from having seen in Spring—

Smoldering, ashen, clotted combustion

that went on the garden to enliven soil,

and disappear into strawberry plants

Or a rhubarb patch or pumpkins, or something,

something that crossed your dinner table,

and you ate it and it became you.