Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
― Walt Whitman

My hair is marsh grass
my arms tree limbs
stretching, muscular in youth
lowering, frail in old age.

My heartbeat is a frog’s
eyes, a bird’s
lungs, a fish’s
skin, a seal’s
in youth
rough wood bark
in old age.

My veins line a leaf
blood, a river inside the leaf
my breath, is wind, a breeze, a gale
the soles of my feet, a bear’s.

My bones are rocks, elongated minerals, calcifications
they will be the heaviness you will feel in your palm
my ashes
as you scatter me
to seed new life.