I hope that someday when I am gone,

When my body has returned itself to the spring-time grass

And buried its bones beneath the soil,

Right against the toes of a tree stump,

The sandpaper bark rubs my skin away.

When my blood is watering carnivorous plants, 

Hyacinths are blooming from my veins.

I hope that pieces of my ribs are used to weigh down

The soft woven edges of your picnic blanket

For my soul,

Far gone with the wind,

Might easily blow it away.

I pray to be confused with onion grass, 

with wormwood, 

With a harsh and ravenous breeze.

I plead for my voice to be heard when your breath passes through the trees.

When a sickening hunger brings you stumbling, 

Searching, 

Looking for a place to feed,

You find the sticky sweet nectar of my sycamore leaves.

I crave for you to be gluttonous, 

Filled to the brim with greed.

For your gentle hands to soak themselves within the ponds my body leaves.

I am an unfading flower,

Stained with the juice of the plumpest fig.

I am the pleasant song of a bluebird,

I am as bright as the light from a thousand sunrises,

For I am alive within the rushing waves of an unmovable ocean. 

I am salt and I am sea,

My name is carved into the world that I will continue to heed.

I hope that someday when I am gone, 

The lush land beneath your feet is, 

Every part,

A piece of me.

A sycamore tree.