Watched Compost Never Blossoms

Prediction has never been
Anything but memory,
Nothing else it could have been.

The future really exists
Only as the composted
Kitchen midden of your past.

Whatever you imagine,
You’re rearranging dug-up
Scraps. Garden could grow from that,

But the garden’s not the scraps,
Not until it’s harvested,
Converted into more past,

Fresh memories you bury
In the midden with your trash.