Compost

How was I supposed to know
that every onionskin and turned tomato,
carrottop and unfinished plate of rice—
not to mention by now a mountain’s worth
of coffee grounds—dumped into the sink
or heaved out with the trash to rot 
in some stinking landfill 
was gold? Who knew those sliced-off 
strawberry crowns and scraps of wasted salad 
shrouded unappreciated alchemical talents 
waiting to be released?

Okay, I’ll admit I was a biology major.
Learned all about the carbon cycle.
Collected beetles and bugs identified
to family, many of them well known
for the magic of converting dead and dying
vegetation into vibrant nutrients for life.
Detritovores. A word to memorize
for the mid-term, sure, but never a bit
of practical advice on how to apply
such lessons to everyday life.

Like most people I know
living within three miles of a Costco,
I’ve filled my fridge with more than I need.
Adopted a lifetime practice
of scraping plates into the trash.
I’m not even a gardener! Just another
consumer cringing at the climate news,
considering solar or a fancy new electric car
while all along nonchalantly shoveling
the secret of carbon sequestration
and a better way of life into plastic bags.
Schlepping them with unsoiled hands 
out to the curb.