Nightfall, on the first day
of snow in December.
I tread through the white
with an overfilled bucket
of kitchen scraps. I do not have feelings
toward snow, do not believe it is pure
or has the ability to make a landscape
pristine. It is white rain. I cut,
as the crow flies, toward the compost
heap, happy to know raccoons,
birds, and the neighbor's dog will eat
our leftovers. I do not know
this will be the coldest winter
I remember. Tomorrow
morning my car will not start,
and I will ride the train home
for Christmas.
I leave food scraps
on the snowy mound
a dank, subtle offering
to an ambiguous vision
of spring gardens. Inside,
my lover waits on my bed.
He has returned to me
concerned over his dreams,
and will leave for the same reason—
taking with him the formula
for beautiful dirt, the ratio
of nitrogen to carbon,
which transmutes compost
into tomatoes, reddening,
in afternoon sunlight.
Mishon A. Wooldridge
is a Northwest writer and massage therapist. Her work has previously appeared in The Quotable, Two Hawks Quarterly, Floating Bridge Review, Earth's Daughters, Third Wednesday, and others. Her poetry is forthcoming in the anthology Tribute to Orpheus 2 (Kearney Street Books). She earned a degree in Creative Writing from Western Washington University.