When I die scatter my ashes
Somewhere like this.
Where the morning creeps in
On the wings of a whistling
Thrush. Where night jars
Ballet with the call of the frog
Where the mist lifts
Long after the day has dawned.
Where blue hills stretch away
Eternally. There let me be
Blown in the wind. And
Should you ever feel the need to visit
Go somewhere no one can reach you
And call my name. I won’t be there.
But it will feel as though I am.