The Resting Place

These are my last wishes:

scatter my ashes among the redwoods

and the seashore cliffs where they reside;

where I would have spent my living days had I

but the materials, and time.

Do not search for me: I am not there.

Poets would have you believe

I am the wind that tousles your hair,

and whispers through the trees;

but the only place I still touch and speak

is in your memory.

Do not speak to me. I cannot hear.

Poets would have you believe the dead are wise

That we hear without ears, and see without eyes

But what remains on Earth is senseless dust

And what does not is God’s mystery.

Do not pray for me. You cannot save me.

Whatever is, is. My time for undoing is done.

Let my wrongs rest with me. Remember my rites:

I was a child once. My father placed a crown of forget-me-nots

and dandelions in my hair. I was yet a child when my father died,

and I sat in his room, clutching my wilted memory of him,

and cried, and cried, and cried. A wise man told me:

“you cannot spell blossom without loss.” To you I give

this fresh crown of flowers. May you wear it well.

Remember that I loved and was loved. That I smiled

and made smiles. That I planted seeds that blossomed,

and fed you the fruits of my love’s labor.

My love, do not search for me. I am not there.

Some may say I have denied you comfort

by requesting cremation. Perhaps it was a selfish wish

to be uninterred thus. But when you ache like a rose in the dark

aches for the sun, remember this:

this poet, long imprisoned by this world, is now free;

she would have you believe

her remnants prefer

the fertile confines of your heart

to those of a sterile grave.