poem by request

Write of spring,
you said.
And all I could think of was a corner of the yard
Where in summer I tossed grass clippings and peach pits
and orange peels
Where in autumn I threw coffee grounds and wilted flowers
and buried a dead bird
and covered all with desiccated leaves
Where in winter I heaped up pine straw
and flung out stale bread
and dropped wet tea leaves that foretold the coming
Rite of spring--
The sifting of rain through sand and crumbled clay
The folding in of loam with seed
The turning of the graveyard of past seasons that welcomes
Wright of spring.