Gray wet stone standing for my spirit?
Names on the graves
all running together
like rainwater rushing over a gutter
or fallen leaves in a gust tumbling.
Spokes without a wheel,
a smudge for a signature.
Nothing meaningful. Nothing real.

A poet once spoke
about a captured chrysalis
doomed to become a moth
beating its wings imprisoned
in a matchbox
by a greedy boy.

Grieve if you must
but let my soul breath
"like a boy put into breeches
after being in petticoats since birth."

Why an urn or a stone?
Bury me like the Indian
face up on the plains
fodder for whatever's hungry.

Then I'll be there
always surrounding you.
The sunbeam on your face,
wet snowflakes instead of ashes falling
kissing your eyelids closed
or the summery view
when your eyes need
to take everything in.

Why a urn or a stone
while I am still alive?
Jesus taught and told so wisely
"Let the dead bury the dead."