what waits to grow
I don’t throw you away,
I bury you.
Not to kill,
but to rot —
slow, necessary,
like peel and rind,
like what the body
cannot hold.
This is my alchemy:
to turn ache into heat,
sadness into surrender,
resistance into husk
that finally gives way.
Longing into dark mulch
where something unnamed
presses up, tender and green.
Compost is not grace,
it is surrender —
the pith rends itself open,
revealing the tension
the psyche could not hold.
The flame I could not carry whole
becomes soil,
black and alive,
ready to hold
what comes next.
Sweet smoke in the remains
reminds me:
nothing ends,
it only ferments.
And if I place my hand
deep in the pile,
I feel the heat rise —
evidence that surrender, too,
is alive,
teeming with what waits to grow.