Friday, November 19, 2010
"Of composts shall the Muse descend to sing,
Nor soil her heavenly plumes? The sacred Muse
Naught sordid deems, but what is base; naught fair
Unless true Virtue stamp it with her seal.
Then, planter, wouldst thou double thy estate
Never, ah, never, be asham'd to tread
The moon is up, the crows have passed and in the autumn gloaming I carry two buckets across the back yard. One bucket comes from the bathroom, the other from under the kitchen sink. Both get emptied into the compost bin. I reach for the pitch fork and give the mass a turn or two. There is just enough light left to make out a few cabbage leaves and a bit of pumpkin on the top of the pile. Steam rises. I hover my hand a few inches above the top and feel the heat there. I am satisfied. With the addition of extra nitrogen from my urine, I don't think the compost will freeze this winter as it has in years past. The buckets get a quick rinse and are returned to their place in the house.
There are a million things a person could do when they get home from work on a Friday night. I like to tread my dung-heaps.