When I think of my death, I think of trees
in the full of summer, a row of them
marking a border, still too far away
for me to name them, posted with rotted boards
everyone but the faint of heart ignores.
(By then, I hope not to be one of those.)
I want to go boldly to the extreme
edge of a life I’ve lived to the fullest
and climb over the tumbled rocks or crawl
under the wire, never looking back—
for if I were to turn and see the house
perched on its hillside, windows flashing light,
or hear a dear voice calling from the deck,
“Supper’s on the table!” I might lose heart,
and turn back from those trees, telling myself,
tomorrow is a better day to die.
I’d race to beat the darkness to the door,
thrashing and stumbling through the underbrush,
flushing out red-winged blackbirds, shaking loose
seeds for next summer’s weeds from their packed pods—
only to look up, breathless, and realize
the hillside’s gone, I’m surrounded by trees
that I don’t recognize, Dante’s dark wood
closing in on all sides, my last moments
filled with a fear that takes my breath away.
Better not to look back until I’ve reached
that line of trees I’ve used to mark my life,
naming them as I pass under their boughs
into the growing shadows: maple, willow,
oak, arborvitae, locust, elm, samán.