I am preparing the fireflies for a final blink
the wolf, a final trot on a prairie, a final heron
perch at the skirt of a pond backlit by moonrise.
Soon, I will become my composer, wear tree
roots as bracelets, be tugged into an arboretum
to eternize as woodland pulp. Isn’t it extraordinary?
By then, death will have broken open and bled
its rainstorm, lost its slow apology. Heart and mouth.
The mound shaping my decay might be an overlay
of yarrow, ochre leaf ash from yesterday’s autumn
dirt tracked by a flock of starlings. Groundwork.
Perhaps I will be compost of rose petal and bird.
Even you, my friend, whose microbial cocktails
and textures mix with mine. Let’s meet in the woods
in the afterlife. We can smile from the other side
of the veil, wonder why we ever thought we were
small. Who knows why the luna moth has only one
week to live. For now, I stand my ground. But someday
the grape of summer will go to raisin, string its vine
in the substratum. Please. No casket. No embalming.
No concrete vault to stop my arms from slowly
threading clay. And please. Don’t wear black.
Bring your color. All of it. Let every green grave
be a grand piano with moss on its keys. After
a long life, you might hear songs, long to play