When I die
Plan A

Don’t mind the laws or conventions.
Stuff me in a backpack and hike
as far as you can into the Rockies
or Tobacco Roots or Crazies.
Rest along the way, sit on a boulder
dangle your toes in a cold creek.
Then keep on walking. You’ll
know the place when you see it.
It may be a copse of trees, a patch
of meadow, a dry creekbed of
smooth stones. Pull the weight of
me off of your back for the last time.
Stretch my body out in an attitude
of repose, my face turned to the sky
so I can gaze, to the last possible
moment, into the eyes of the earth
that I so loved, even as it took me
into its fierce embrace. The bear
and mountain lion, coyote and fox,
birds and bugs will feast on my flesh,
my bones will sharpen teeth and
mineralize the soil. I don’t know
in what ways I will look back at you
-as the raven on a fence post,
a sudden breeze that kisses your
cheek, the whisper of grass around
your ankles – but I will reach out
a thousand times a day so that you
recognize the hand of welcome when
it is your turn to die. So you will not
tighten in fear and pull back, causing
yourself to be dragged like a burden.
So you will reach out and pour
yourself into the arms of the good
gloaming, the mother, the lover.