The Archive of My Ash

When the rain has dissolved me,

and I am one with the loam,

the worms that turn this earth

will write your name in their slow, blind tome.

Their castings will form a new language,

a scripture of where we have been,

each verse a remembered tremor,

each chapter the warmth of your skin.

The flowers that drink from this soil

will bloom with a fevered hue,

the specific red of your laughter,

the deep, quiet blue that was you.

Their perfume will be a ghost of

the scent that was caught in your hair,

a whisper to passing strangers

of how I adored you, right there.

So when a strange blossom moves you,

or the soil feels sacred and deep,

it’s the world reading from my remains,

the promise it swore it would keep.