Bury me without a coffin
in a grave marked by the shade
of a dogwood tree, under a tree so old
it has no age. Let the earth stain me,
turn my white bones dark.
Tamp the dirt down with the back of a shovel.
Do not let me die in New England, where the ground
is hardened by ice and silt and memory.
Let me be a new bud raising its head toward the sun.
Even in the darkest hours, my roots will siphon
what it needs to split its nymphal past.
Do not miss me, for I am survived by you.
Remember this as your rest your head
on the loam of my breast,
from the light.
(Nothing against New England. I'm a southern girl at heart.)