When all is said and done,

When my body has settled into the ground

Heavy and spent,

My spirit will hang just above

For a short while

And my bones will rest 

Sinking gently

Into the sweet earth.

The sound of birdsong surrounding.

The bleached onceness of my being

Too soon gone.

Do we wake up when we're 80 and think:

I never made it to India?

Do we wake up when we're 80 and think that we're still young? In that space between asleep and awake.

Do our bones remember

That we loved?

What will become of me?

A passing thought...