Perhaps when I die,
I shall not rush to the next life,
But take a summer’s vacation
And linger in my garden
Where my limbs will be as vines and branches
My hair as foliage
My breath sweet with fragrance.
I shall dance like a fairy
Among the crocus and lilies of the valley,
Flit like a firefly among the flowers
Of June and July.
Perhaps I shall sit quietly on a bench
And listen to the voices of flowers and ferns
And sing the words of the birdsong,
Caw-ing with the crows.
Perhaps I will dance in the rain,
Or dabble in a fountain, or drink the morning dew.
I shall summer in my garden
And before winter’s coldest winds
Set in, I shall move on, brightly
To the next world with the memories
Of a butterfly, a butter cup,
To be a gardener once again.
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