Do not cry for me, Sister Suzan
life abounds over—
my flesh and bones
Spring, Summer, Fall—three seasons have passed:
I had so many friends visiting me
Little mouthful red squirrels speedy-dab my grave,
so does the blue woodpecker—
beating oak, birch, elm, pine; in order of preference
Who would ever think those ripples in the reservoir
were masterpiece of the woodpecker’s beak—not wind!
Gnawed trunks, ripped trees, carpet of leaves
sip sweet scent of death in the woods,
as each step of hikers oscillates decay
on springy ground layered with centuries of leaves
Some fading conversations in Ukrainian, Tagalog, Hindi
become a lost melody
Autumn light hangs on between twigs
to elongate time of season
So—dear Sister Suzan,
do not cry for me
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