December, Cave Hill

This draft was inspired by watching a video about human composting and thinking about death planning.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI walk in Cave Hill Cemetary on a December morning,gray air so heavy my eyes don't know what light iswarm breezes of an altered climate lift the edges of my hair. I read the names to myselfinvoke the magic that turns words to fleshconnect my imagination to the floating remnants of finished lives. When I die, I want to become compostgathered in a fecund pile with other former human soulsspread lovingly on beleaguered city trees --to somehow become part of the weave straining to hold this fragile Earth together. Folks will breathe the bit of air exhaled by treesnourished by compost connected to the living network of mycelium. No one will read my name in stone,invoke the magic that turns words to flesh --But that's okay.I'll live.