Write on my Coffin
Like they did for Grandpa that day I wore red
saw it too
Make the words scrawl instead of neat
no fonts or serifs
Let them be hard to read on the pine wood
rough cut and not sanded
Because I want to go back to ashes and dust
let your words go too
My memory will be the taste of well grown fruit
the mineral taste of venison
The smell of the dust in the air before the lightening starts
and the drops fall down
Heavy and pendulous like life itself
landing finally home, in the grass or in the dirt,
before being taken up again
to fall over and over and over