When I die, I want to be like a leaf
pirouetting to earth in a life-inspired autumnal dance.
I want to join the scuffing, whooshing chorus
of other fallen leaves as a breeze sweeps across
our amber-golden bodies, lifting us in a whirling dervish.
Our swirling playfulness wanes as a fading zephyr
tenderly cradles us to the damp earth.
Ashen blotches of mold will feed on our arid bodies.
Our once verdant faces will slowly blacken with the color of death.
Then Mother Earth will bury her dead
to morph into a nest of humus, incubate a single seed,
and birth another autumnal dance.