Decomposition
I’d like to age
like a tree,
admired for my girth,
identified by my wrinkles,
offering shade and a place to climb,
though never tired.
I’d like to die
like a tree,
erect and facing the light,
reborn in moss and fern,
marshmallow sticks and firewood,
never useless.
Forget face cream and walkers,
coffins and formaldehyde.
I want to stretch out on the forest floor,
a refuge for chipmunks,
and sprout new life.