The leaf and branch bin, steady morning rain on it,
Picked up by the unseen compost truck, then rolled by me
To its modest square by the fence,
Damp beauty bark some inches deep. The rise
My synthetic shoe soles make around that
Mound of yard, sequestered, dense,
Barely confers with nature, except perhaps
In having her thump back against my moving
And hold me up -- its motherly sense.
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