Sonnet #222

The birds will not remember me, nor bees

nor butterflies, but that they lived better and more

will be legacy written in every shadow in the sky

When I am gone, and mud drowns all my sores

There will be living birds that sing memorials

and do not realize to whom their song adores

The honey will be sweet where flowery vials

bore the bounteous nectar and butterflies tore

chrysalises open for gardens painted on the wings

And generations of the flyers hid among these leaves

next to my door, where otherwise was nothing

lawn of grass, mowed, ignored, wilderness bereaved

Where now there is a garden because I lived here

Pilgrims fly in memory of my gardens that were

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