A Bed for Wolves

 

Tall Tree Trail 1989

When I die,

perch me in the bowl

of an ancient cedar 

- gently! -

don't crush the mosses.

Let my eyes face the sea,

my ears attune to

the tides and the patter

of the rain
on the leaves.

Let me sway gently

in the winter gales,

supple and bending

like a Taoist gentleman

practicing Tai Chi.

When, in time, I topple out,

come back and make a nest for me

of rotted nurselog and dampened salal.

Add a blanket

of thick moss

and old man's beard.

Tap it down lightly.

Let it become

a bed

for wolves.

for earthweal's open link