Shhhh. – the wind

When I die, bury me at Petit Jean. Fill my lungs with fresh-tilled earth and let the Arkansas rush through my ribs. I am a flower, strong and frail, a gardener tending to the soil of my heart. When I return from Hades, my soul will sprout again, blooming among the magnolias.

When I live, set me sail along the Buffalo. Lay me down, head towards the sky, and let me drift among the sunken trees. I am a manger made of wooden flesh, a carpenter tending to the desert of my palms. When I return from Galilee, my fingers will be butter and jam, a picnic among the mulberries.

When I dream, sing my song at Mt. Sequoia. Keep low and barely hum, where only the whippoorwills can hear. I am a poet, made of sugar and vinegar, an artisan tending to the glass of my tongue. When I return from America, my voice will be a banjo and fiddle, a prayer in the hollers of Ozarkia.

Listen. – the river.

Image: Magnolias by John Singer Sargent (1912)