To Linger in the Garden

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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