There’s a warm wind blowing
where your heart lies at rest
in the moist earth. I come
for the memory, I guess, though
I don’t know why I didn’t need
the memory before today.

The drilling in the rock has stopped,
he plugs the plastic stem into the hole.
The garish red flower erects
like a stop sign above your feet.
It could’ve been a real lily
or rose – It makes no difference
to you, I know, but it does to me.

The sands wash down with every rain
making you every day more one
with the earth. Why not the air?
or the sea? Why do we bury
ourselves in soil? And what of those
who are buried in the sea or the air?
Are their dreams any different?

I do believe in a place of power.
I wish to be buried there – as ash,
consorting with air + water and earth.
But it all comes down to earth
after all, doesn’t it? The ash floating
in air or lake washes down to sink
into the earth + dream with worms.