To you who sits at my grave

To you who sits at my grave

When you’ve come to visit me
On a thursday evening with flowers
Not long after my fresh planting
Into the earth,
I’ll take you to play hopscotch
Among the headstones.

Then, I’ll let you sit atop my bones and
Drink tea while we rest.
You’ll weave stories
Out of threads, threads of the living.
I’ll hang onto every word like a child
Does a bedtime story.

And when you fall silent and withered,
I’ll whisper to you with a silent tongue
The smell of morning dew, and the quiet peace
Of the dead, and all the timeless
Freedom to enjoy the life around me.

But do not linger at my grave long,
For you have a journey to return to
And I’ve nearly arrived at my destination.

Let me have the respite I lost to living,
For I have shed my flesh suit
And you still wear yours.

Leave me to the sun’s warm embrace
And the moon’s motherly caress.
And leave to me, your sadness.
I’ll nurture it, along with your petrified flowers.
Do not take them back to your life;
They’ve been touched by death now,
And they are mine.

Next, I’ll plant your sadness above my bones.
Don’t you think it beautiful to see –
Your sadness blooming with my soul?
One day, when you wish to return,
You will see that I’m still growing with you
Even in death. And when
you’ve depleted your sadness to water me,
I will live on.

One day, I hope the river
That drifts through our harbors
Becomes sun-baked and green.
It is grief that washes your shores now.
Let the waters dry and leave behind fertile soil
For you to plant fresh flowers
Where my absence lies.

I hope you shall forget about me then,
But remember enough to
Return to my grave, and find the tree grown
From my soul,
Welcoming you in my stead.