The Tree
Tuck me into a wooden box,
Not fancy, but just for me.
Immerse me low into the earth,
Beneath a tall oak tree.
Scatter the seeds above the dirt,
Sprinkle a blanket where I'll lay.
So the tree will feed off me,
When I begin to decay.
The leaves will exhale oxygen,
When it continues to grow.
The beauty that it got from me,
No one may ever know.
In the tree I will live on,
Although my heart has died.
And if anyone ever misses me,
The tree holds me inside.
Copyright © Joie Dickinson | Year Posted 2015
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