I'd like to die in a flower field,
if ever it's my time to go.
Here they'll find my bones, young and white
or brittle and old, polished like dark ivory keys
or a smooth skipping stone. Maybe I'll be
spread out like a bird or tucked
and hugging my knees, like a tulip waiting to open
till spring. The wind will alert a whisper
to the deer grazing nearby, and they'll first
regard me as a live-thing asleep,
then consider the way the grass cradles me,
like a freshly fallen tree.
And there I'll lie, my hair stirring softly but
as surely as a dead autumn leaf. They'll dance
and trot away to tell of my leave
to whatever force is out there to deal with such things,
to lift me out of my flowerbed and whipe the dust off my knees,
and to set me earthly-free.