bid me not
some sad farewell
of living gone awry –
or grieve me yet
when glories stretch the ground
build me not a golden box
but line my drawer
with cedar –
song beneath the branches
falling ’round

carry not my name
for long –
with bittersweet remorse
or dwell on lines
never to be wrote
as petals to your autumn red
remembering the same
swirling clouds of scarlet –
summer smoke

ashes
somewhere blowing –
a storm beyond the night
make my bed
beneath the willow tree
bargain not with seekers
for stars when nights grow cold
yearning still a flame
to burn for me –

. . .