I get a jump on my upcoming
death by taking my ghost
for a walk in the woods,
the grass is tender dry
and without a sound we slip
past the low water pond where
the lilies have lost their flags
and go to a trinity of red oaks
who share a base of gnarled roots.
Astonished to see last week’s wind
has taken down two of the three,
my ghost chuckles that the Father 
and Son are on their way to rot 
but Holy Spirit is holding up well.
Not funny I think.  On my knees
digging black cohosh from beneath
the fallen trunks, my arm, sliced
by a wid rose thorn, bleeds onto
the ground. Like a priest giving
benediction my ghost calls out: even
when your grand children are forgotten
by their grand children, this soil
will remember the taste of you