My Final, Faithful Biographers

When the roots of the willow

have threaded my bones,

and used my ribs for their home,

they will drink from the rain

that once fell on your skin,

and remember the places we’d known.

They will grow with a knowledge

of how my hands shook,

when they first learned the shape of your face.

Their leaves will all tremble

with that same nervous thrill,

and wear a similar grace.

When the fire takes me,

and my dust is set free

on a wind that has no destination,

the soot of my love

will be carried above,

a dark, desperate constellation.

And if one speck of me

lands on your window,

a faint and forgotten black stain,

it will hold the last echo

of every "I love you,"

and whisper your name in the rain.

And if by some chance,

you should walk by that tree,

or feel that same wind in your hair,

you might pause for a moment,

your heart undefined,

and feel a old warmth in the air.

For the earth and the air

will become my own voice,

when my own flesh and memory are through.

They will be my last chronicle,

my final, faithful biographers,

eternally writing of you.