Put me in the Pudding River when I am gone.
Let my mistakes melt into silt;
add a few minerals to the oak;
grow an acre of grass;
or float on the water, fish food,
if I could be so blessed.
I haven’t died for a cause, been called to war,
or particularly put my time to others’ benefit.
Sail no flag at all over my grave,
I am a human nation unto myself.
I can say I tried not to litter and recycled a lot;
I have given a little money away when I could stand it;
but loved no one but my son selflessly,
and he would even rightfully argue that.
There is no monument that could be carved,
no cross appropriate, no star worthy
of the horses that sometimes come by the river
or roll in the meadow on a sunny day
by the railroad bridge on the way
to Woodburn from Mt. Angel, Oregon–
that bend in the Pudding River is enough.
I am so pleased to sink to the land
of blueberry bushes, osprey, and mountains.
I only hope my ashes will not clog anything
or interfere with the progress of earthworms.
Please remember me for a moment—
I would like that. That would be more than enough.