“A man knows where he is from when he knows where he would like to be buried.”
You can bury me wherever you want:
Garden, ocean, cemetery plot.
It doesn’t matter to me.
The body will be done.
But I do know where I want to be a ghost–
A bench somewhere
Overlooking a lake, pond, mountain trail.
Anywhere someone would sit and think.
I want to haunt them with whispers,
Reflective ideas they would think came
From the gentle breeze,
Recite some poetry
They could sense but not hear
So they looked out from that bench
With a poet’s eye,
Maybe sing gently just beyond their reach.
When I die
I want to stay in the conversation
Of beauty and ideas and connections.
You can do what you want with my body.
Just leave me the words.