compost

everyone is rotten
except you,
you're still blooming,
always,
even now.

I'm afraid of the compost
burrowing out of me,
from the dark earth
that decomposes everything

that hasn't been watered

carefully,

withered for years.

can you see
where the roots grow from?
can you tell me,
where do they want to go?

should I wait till I become

another one of your summers?