My limbs were scattered.
Wild animals ate
my flesh. My bones
lay unburied.
None of that matters.
Death is a rock
tossed in a river –
as soon as they open
your wounds close.
When I was alive
the best of me
was only mud
and took
the impress of her.
Still I remember
and murmur her name.
My song is the fossil;
she was the fern.