When I have died, lay me here.
I won’t care how, handed down
into the rocky earth to return to dust,
or trickled through your fingers, ashes to ashes.
I won’t know,
but you will care, and you will know,
and your hands will remember
that in this place,
this place I love,
all the glory of the heavens is reflected.
I will rest under silent snow and brilliant stars,
while the elk sough in the trees,
the coyotes laugh, the bears sleep.
I will rise with the first shoots,
green and hopeful, reaching upward
as the water, freed, begins to sing.
Perhaps you’ll visit, although no matter,
because all of me lives in you,
you who have been even dearer
to me than this place.
I won’t be here, except when you are,
and when you are not, I will be there too.
But if you come,
come in September, when you will be comforted
by the dying leaves, still glowing,
by the breeze that calls up voices,
by fundament crunching underfoot
and firmament arching so purely blue above.
If you come, remember
that joy looks like this,
the love of God in living color.
And if you come,
or if you never do, remember
that I have loved you