Sonnet #215

When we die we rest in a little version of home

Those city dwellers combust in urns and crowds

Or pile their bones in catacombs that rattle loud

where cars drive over the underworld paving stones

Surburbanite, you will lie in a green grass plot

The form and material of your tombstone will be approved

And men will come to mow the grass, and beloved

will lie together yet in separate rooms, as lived as bought

Where I die lay no memorial stone except as trees

I will be as rooted in death as the rootless

who fall in the fields unmourned, but for me

The green of living will sing of my giving; Unless

you hold these rowdy and unnamed places holy,

You don’t hold me: My Legacy, my Ghost Purposes

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s