This Compost (When we named her Ivy we didn't mean it literally)
Roots and leaves themselves are these,
Scents brought to folks from the wild woods and pond-side,
Rust, breast-sorrel and pinks and steels of love, fingers that wind around tighter than vines,
(the boys are becoming birds, the girls plant life,the gender non-conforming)
Gushes from the throats of birds hid in the foliage of trees as the sun is risen, Breezes of land and love set from living shores to you on the living sea,
Frost-mellow'd berries and Third-month twigs offer'd fresh to young persons wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up, Love-buds put before you and within you whoever you are,
(the first time it hurt, the fourth time even worse,but before I knew it I was flying)
Buds to be unfolded on the old terms,
If you bring the warmth of the sun to them they will open and bring form, color, perfume, to you,
If you become the aliment and the wet they will become flowers, fruits, tall branches and trees.
Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient, It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions.