Bone Seed

Small rolling hills, valley plots, nothing regimented, graves not scattered, but placed among natural features. It’s beautiful here especially in the Fall. The Maples are tall and burning bright. There are new graves among the old. I thank all of them for being here before me. Not that I could afford to be planted here. Even the Maples are too rich for my death. No, I will be ashes thrown into the Ohio river. I imagine the fishes will be pleased to see me, the abandoned truck tires easily accommodating my swirling dust. If the shore weeds and cattails catch me, then I will linger until their own death releases my essence once more. Down the slow waters, in chewed, dribbles and drabs will I go until I seep within a slick of mud, just spice for mites and grubs into the Mississippi. Days bleed their green entrails into the empty hulks of passing years. A future, nourished by the ear bones of all beings who listened, and once heard, of the everlasting opens up into a perfect unison. I reappear transformed by generations of sprouting dreams into a Maple seed. A seed now planted in these same pleasant Autumnal acres. Here, I will grow tall and beautiful; as a many limbed arboreal fire. Curious ghosts in their mausoleums will spy into the Fall daylight to watch my leaves, turn, and grow bright – so flame red, so burning bright.