Dust To Seed

Gentle rolling hills, valley plots, nothing regimented, graves not in ordered row 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 them all 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 in the Ohio river, more befitting my redneck soul. I imagine the fishes will be pleased, the abandoned truck tires 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. Eventually I will be transformed after generations of sprouting dreams - maybe into a Maple seed. A seed to be planted in these same pleasant Autumnal acres.