i live in a house that God built
down in a holler,
up against a deep, creeping wood
that moves with shadow and shape.
hill over hill, an ocean of leaves
this is where i’ve laid my claim
where mud and blood all stain the same.
will i die beneath the cherry wood
or oak or elm, or bathed in light in
the pasture still?
God I hope it’s under a starry night,
when all my little earth becomes
a reflection in some Other starlit
lake. where space blankets my
decaying arms and legs and hands,
swallowed up by the dirt, wrapped
up in a cosmos.
my trees will sing
for me, and will hang low, and
then will forget
as they should. what are we but dust?
here only for a moment, and then
gone. a song once whistled on the
wind, now only tangled up,
like whispers in a wood.