Sonnet XXI: Compost

The smell pervades your nostrils, sweet with death
Too slow to see, the compost shrinks, makes room
It’s breaking down, dissolving slow as breath
Exhaling death incrusts a fertile womb
Detritus feeds the bugs and worms, my dear
Don’t swat the fly that buzzes by your face
It’s newness eating into old you hear 
Excreting death constructs a hearty base
You miss the leaves, their green above in spring
You long for ripened fruit; it pits your gut
You feel a loss, but haven’t lost a thing
You’ve gained a place for growth, a fecund rut
Don’t mourn what’s worn away, don’t cry defeat
There’s richness, life anew, beneath the peat