I’m sitting in the compost of the lives I might have led
I should be sending roots down but I’m feeding worms instead.
Plans and purpose, potential things, go down into the loam,
Their crumbly, black-brown detritus is what I now call home.
The aim is growing up and out, a shoot, a leaf, a flower…
I will. I won’t? I might. I could. It should be in my power.
But here I stay, butt in the mud, trying not to decompose,
Not up or down, but looking round, in the garden that I chose.