My bones feel the cold,
so easily.
I guess, maybe it's their age.
Or maybe not.
I have always hated the cold.
Or maybe, not.
I prefer the heat.
Glorious, humid, heat.
If I die in winter,
burn my earthen vessel.
But my wish,
Is to die in July.
Bury me in the sunshine.
No trees,
And my soul will rejoice,
As I depart this world.
5/22/10 29 Palms ca.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem