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In a garden green where blossoms sway,
I wandered through the bright array,
And there beneath the elm so hulched,
I found a mound of fragrant mulch.
Curiosity, a daring guide,
Led me to this earthy tide.
Rich and warm, a hearty smell,
A mix of wood and leaf did dwell.
I stooped to touch the textured spread,
A voice within my fancy led:
"Could this brown and humble heap,
Hold secrets in its silence deep?"
I broke a clump and brought it near,
With wild intent and no small fear.
The taste of earth, a primal call,
A blend of life, decay, and all.
It crunched and crumbled, sharp and sweet,
A dance of flavors none could beat.
Of cedar bark and oak so fine,
With hints of pine and ancient vine.
It spoke of seasons, sun and rain,
Of roots that twist in earth's domain.
A cycle, endless, life and end,
In mulch, all elements do blend.
Yet though this taste was rich and wild,
A truth from nature's mouth exiled,
This feast of bark and loam and leaf,
Is best for worms and roots beneath.
So here I sit with wiser mind,
To leave the mulch to its design.
For in its bed, the flowers bloom,
And in its depth, the earth consumes.
