The acrid scent of compost pile

The diaper of a newborn child

Earth, just turned, in garden bed

The roses of the newly wed

The freshest air, when storm has passed

The fragrance of the fresh cut grass

I bring the fire of life to form

Your soul with flesh I do adorn

Between the seasons I give you rest

Truly I am the cosmic breast

I would not have you burn your lips

You must have reality in tiny sips

A handful of dirt that teems with life

If you like, I am spirit’s wife

In volcanic ash new life shall creep

Pollen sprouting to pistil’s deep

The softness of each petal rare

Floral fragrance distilled with care

My joy to serve, as farmer’s toil

All you need springs from my soil.

—Warren King