I will disappear into the memory of the wind;
I will fold myself into the gilded leaves of dawn;
reach for my bones and you will grasp a handful
of morning; seize my flesh and you will find
in the unfolding of your fingers an empty chrysalis-
a vacant cocoon whose tattered threads
disintegrate into the elusive fragrance
of fresh cut grass or perhaps the warm,
chunky smile of a November moon.
Scream my name into the tawny slate
of some un-named canyon, and I will ride the
echo of the granite walls deep into the memory
of the earth; her molten amniotic contractions
shuddering with the promise of mountains
and jungled arroyos and sky-towering redwoods,
all over which the newborn stars blushed
to cast their silvery rain
upon the first dawn of a mountain dynasty.
But don't look to exhume my name from the grave of the dead;
don't waste an indulgent tear on my behalf
to spring the memory of my life from the purgatory—
the tedious liturgy of the ungrateful half-dead-
for I have fused my DNA into the beauty of the living;
in realms of awe I have melded my vision into the
gloriously tangled tapestries of creation. When my soul
finally rejects this transient allograft
I will scatter like a sunbeam fractured into a thousand
shards piercing the wonder of all that is alive,
all that is wonderful to behold.
And I will become the morning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem