Chop wood, shovel snow, bake bread, make dinner, and after take the compost to the bin, nearly full though only half decomposed. Citrus is the worst, the rinds of orange, lemon, grapefruit, and lime, and also avocado, the skins and pits. November before last, so long ago now, I was in the garden, scraping the snow off the beds, digging the compost in before the ground froze. There amid the remains of summer’s mint and parsley, potatoes and peas, was a six-inch stalk, a plant I didn’t know. I lifted it from the cold earth, brushed the snow away, and saw it was avocado. Yes, avocado, sprouted from an afternoon of guacamole and gin and tonics. I dug up a little more of the soil, put that and the unlikely shoot into a clay pot, and took it into the warm house, the wood I’d chopped burning in the stove. I meant this poem to be about the things we can do trapped now in ourselves, wrapped up against a virus: writing letters and reading novels, inventing dinners from frozen foods and legumes soaked overnight, bundling up in layers to lie on the ground and watch the stars. Things like that. But it turns out this poem’s about compost, that is to say about transformation, how we change moving through the days, and the days, how they change moving through us.