compost happens

This is a busy little corner of our yard.  Hens cluck proudly after they lay, the compost pile occasionally gets turned, we chat with our backyard neighbor as she smokes high above us on her deck.... last Sunday, while Claire napped and Mike sat down for a few minutes to eat some lunch and relax after our morning of yard and garden work, I headed out to sift the compost.


Because it is truly one of the most meditative and calming things I know.

It starts out (as compost typically does) as a mix of our kitchen scraps, yard waste, and chicken poo and looks something like this:

and then we stop adding to that pile and turn it more often and after some time (weeks? a couple months?)  and lots of rain and sun and worms and billions of little microbes, it looks like this:

and then we shovel it onto the handy compost screen that Mike made and smush it all around to sift out the sticks and acorns and not-really-quick-to-compost compostable forks and what-have-you

and we are left with this:

which we use in our raised beds and as part of our soil mix (equal parts compost, vermiculite and rehydrated coconut coir) that we make up to start all sorts of green and growing goodness.

Ah, compost.  What lessons there are to be learned from you~

I love this poem from prairepoetry.org:

	Compost
	When I've left my husk and you've had your weep, Toss me out on the compost heap. Mix me in with the leaves and such And sprinkle some water -- it won't take much. Stir well with a fork, or whatever you've got, Do what it takes to help me rot. And when I've become a rich, dark soil Plow me in, and I'll start my toil Of nourishing worms, and likewise roots And pushing up some tender shoots Of grass, and veggies, and bushes and trees Perches for birds, and banquets for bees. I'll make plants fruit! I'll grow food for critters! I'll raise up some corn, and you can make fritters! It'll be lots of fun -- I can just hardly wait! To nurture new life will really be great. And I'll laugh at you some, if I get on your shirt And you get annoyed and start calling me "dirt." When dogs track me in Winter, my name will be Mud But when Spring comes around, I'll be in each bud. Hug a tree in the Summer, and pat on its bark, Rest yourself in its shade -- say, "You're looking good, Mark!" If you miss me in Autumn, well heck -- look around I'll be in the leaves, the river, the ground. Sprinkle me some where the wildflowers grow, and I'll be in the trilliums, pushing up through the snow And I'll be in the worms when the young robins feed And provide a soft cradle for each dying plant's seed. When a fish eats a worm (if the robins are sharin') There's a good chance I'll fly in the wings of a heron. Whatever you do, don't build me a tomb -- I haven't been bad! Don't lock me in a room! I want to be free -- instead of riding my bike, I'll Go out and pedal on Life's great cycle And I'll get around, all over this Earth, Following the path of life, death and rebirth.
	L. Mark Finch