Write on my Coffin

Like they did for Grandpa that day I wore red saw it too Make the words scrawl instead of neat no fonts or serifs Let them be hard to read on the pine wood rough cut and not sanded Because I want to go back to ashes and dust let your words go too

My memory will be the taste of well grown fruit the mineral taste of venison The smell of the dust in the air before the lightening starts and the drops fall down

Heavy and pendulous like life itself landing finally home, in the grass or in the dirt, before being taken up again to fall over and over and over