
Your beauty, thought
and whim, the doom
& awe of a wild rain
Your stinging tongue
nettled flowers,
your imaginings vast
and rocky plains
Loyal as the roots of an oak
to the earth, a pencil,
a paper, a story maker
Of all your exquisite flaws,
Jo March, your pride…
After I’m Gone, Paint the Earth with my Ashes
for my daughter

You’ll find my song
in your memory
or in a stream
a still melody
until it bursts
like a willow in spring
I am the burble
and the bark
and the dormant place
from which buds form