At the funeral I do not want to be the one in the coffin.
I will surround myself with flowers,
go to a meadow
& lie down on my back.
The wind will flutter my soul like a flag.
I am already at half mast.
There is no one to sing for me except the birds.
They know the longer I lie here
the more worms they will eat.
It’s a fair exchange.
They are singing now for their supper later,
& the yarrow, dandelions, & clover are thrilled.
I will add nutrients to the soil that their roots
eat & drink from. At the funeral I do not want
to be the one in the coffin.
I will surround myself with pine trees,
go to the forest & lie down on my back.
There will be no one to mourn me
except elk & wolves with bugles & howls.
At night, I dream I turn to liquid.
Like flowing water, I adhere to the laws
of falling, spilling, & filling.
One morning there is a woman released from herself,
unlike a woman who remains a monument to herself,
bathing in a stream.
I recognize her face.
She is laughing.
There are flowers in her hair & she is waving.
