The Legacy I Imagine Poem by Richard Randolph

I can imagine after I die my wife trying to spread my ashes on the waves,
but the wind coming up unexpectedly and scattering them instead.
That's just the way it is on the Oregon coast.
Everyone would think this unfortunate, but it'd really be fate.
They'd go on with their lives, thinking that was the end of me,
but some of my ashes would find their way under a magic tree,
and it'd use them to make a beautiful, mysterious golden fruit.
Then, years later, my daughter, or maybe a granddaughter,
would see one of these fruits and, unable to resist, she'd try it,
though she'd been warned that such fruit was worthless or bad.
When she tasted it, though, it'd be like water in a desert,
or a solid truth in a world of shifting lies; it'd rejuvenate her,
give her hope when she'd had none before.
Suddenly she'd recognize the differences between
real and feigned love, true modesty and manipulation,
and this awareness would make her start thinking about
how to make others aware of such differences.
She'd understand that saying a thing is not enough.
You have to embody it, and that always entails
both critical self-awareness and sacrifice.
No doubt she'd feel a bit overwhelmed at first,
but the knowledge of our lives and experiences,
encapsulated within my ashes and transported by the fruit,
would reassure her that she's not alone,
that we're each but a single link in a giant chain
carrying the true message forward through time,
and though the task often feels hopeless,
and the individual links feel desperate and alone,
destiny will ensure we prevail in the end.
That's my dream, and though I'm sure it seems farfetched,
I believe it might happen, albeit in a slightly different form,
and then I'll have come to a very good end indeed.