Peach mushrooms mumble
her first name from the damp
womb of pine & birdsong, where
in early spring we tossed
her soft gritty
ashes like wedding rice
at the final exit. She is now
membranes, quick living
pinks, improvization
of mountain laurel, spicebrush
& sweetshrub. My husband wants
to go this way. Throw me
to the green, he says. I will
return as red maple & silverbell
& when autumn arrives, I will
become the glow-yellow
of witch-hazel, lighting your way.