February 12, 2012


I will die
out in the desert,
be buried in the dry earth,
wind blowing through
my coffin like wild fire,
become sere as the leaves
I raked as a child
in my grandmother's yard,
wondering what they
meant for me,
why they crumpled to dust
so quickly,
born in the spring
falling in the autumn,
offspring of the trees
from which they fell,
now all grown
another year stronger,
their family secret kept so well.