In early spring we tossed
soft her gritty
ashes. Wedding rice
at the final exit.
 
From the damp womb
of pine & birdsong,
the forest renamed her —
drifting mist of membrane
 
& pale pollen. My husband
says he, too, would like
the final dust of him salted
back to earth. Throw me back
 
to the green, he says. I will
return as red maple
& silverbell. When autumn
arrives, I will become glow
 
of witch-hazel, lighting your way.