I push the wheelbarrow filled with cornstalks up the grade to the compost pile, breathing hard, the mud of the garden a burden around the soles of my boots.
At the office with my mouse in hand chasing pixels across the screen, my body aches in other ways. The fatigue is less so I think, different I know. And I am responsible.
I have faithfully watered the plant beside the desk, but its leaves form a thick pile on the floor. A bit of outside brought inside to comfort and now distress me.
Though I know that I too must give in to that which pushes me back into the ground.
For it seems that my life is solely about the business of making a decent compost.
Originally posted here October 2005