When I’m finished here
you don’t have to save anything.
Not those boxes of memorabilia
and books of photos.
Surely not my dead body draped in a coffin.
Just grind it all up
and make a compost of what was me.

Plant me in a sunny spot
where I can sprout into something
green and lush,
that will cause a creature to pause, and sigh.

My legacy is not in collected stuff,
that people will either argue about
or store with guilt.
The flesh and bones,
I never gave too much attention to…
I’ll be done with them.

All that will remain of me
are the words I planted in your mind,
that you will recall one day
when the wind blows my scent
from a jasmine vine
that entwines your soul.

And you will sigh,
like that creature in the shade of a tree
that was me.
You will sigh, “Ah hah, now I know,
now I understand,”
and your words,
of my words,
will rustle the leaves,
and warm the edges of someone’s lips,
to curl into a smile,
to catch a tear,
to fall to the soil,
and change the way the river flows.

In your words, of my words
I become immortal.

No need to mark my grave.
Just plant me and let me go.