There are days
I want to sit with you
as children playing
in the dirt,
watch ants
busily working,
and listen to wind
brush aside branches
of trees the way
my hand moves
hair from my face.
The ground will reclaim
us someday,
when we can no longer
love like we are twelve.
As the ground reclaimed
Schliemann’s childhood
dream (treasure).
No, even great Achilles
mystic as he was
could not escape
reclamation.
And the ground
will reclaim our cities:
New York, Boston, Detroit,
my childhood home
in Kansas
where my friends
live their lives
on the same plot of ground
that will retake them.
Not death,
just breath–flash of light.
Acceptance,
the ground is willing
to reclaim
anyone; me
all I am
my words erased
when I no longer
have energy to speak
and I cannot hope
for more than this
day sitting
with you,
on the ground
(perhaps a sandwich
and lemonade).
What more could I hope?
except hope
our memory
will be remembered.
