It begins with the thrust of the fork,
piercing the side of the pile,
opening up the flesh of the earth, the scraps
of every sacred meal, the once savory leavings
of every sensuous morsel that passed your lips,
the bright, transcendent moments now
no different from the failures, the spoiled
dishes that hit the garbage before the plate,
the sins and revelations all alike
left to richly rot and bless their grave.
Giving thanks, you upheave the work
of worms and bugs, the dark labor
hidden from your eyes but not your faith,
the transfiguration of the mess
from the leavings of death to living soil.
To theirs you add your labor,
turning the pile, letting what has been
become what shall be, the sower knows not how.
Something within is turning, too, of course,
but understanding is as foreign there as here.
You plunge and lift the fork, and learn to trust
that mystery, as with a seed, in which a thing,
a moment, or a memory, bears more
than can be seen or known, but in its dying
is set free to become yet even more,
grace emerging in the turning. And so you turn
the pile, as with your heart, then come back in,
take off your gloves, and change your shoes, and know
the treasure buried in the field becomes the field,
becomes your life. The holy, turned, becomes
the world.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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