Bury me not
in your lone valley
where there is no water
or enough sun to grow

even a simple stone
is still
not to serve as a marker
but an arrow to follow
this is not your only rest

Bury me not
in fields fallow
set to run
into streams of
wrestling mud
when the rains come

under these seas
my bones will not
rest but rot
as I never find sleep
always moving.

No.

Bury me in the plains,
where the tall grasses
wear the teeth of
old cattle

where the roots are dense enough
to see no trace of my humanity

where my body climbs
into the breath of
each foundling lash of prairie green,

where I become the grace and the essence
of all living things:

Bury me here.