Was that the wind
A tempest blew,
Or ‘stead,
Vestiges of my life
Gone whooshing by?

~ ~ ~


Cast me ashes to the sky
When done my time to be,
As the winsome butterfly,
~ ~ ~


Paint me a pastoral solace,
Snake a path ’round emerald hills,
Roam newborn calves and lambs,
Red brush me a barn atop the hill
Dab in shady oaks, string my swaying bed
Where I may slow breathe my sunset days
Unbound, free to farm new memories.

~ ~ ~