You, Archibald MacLeish

 

I will never lie in that dark earth.

The soil will never claim me, nor its damp seep

seek out my joints, nor the ants

creep in my marrow.

I will leave behind a cast-off sack

of things that once were mine,

and a pile of bones burned clean by fire

to mark what once had shape and sound.

 

But I will have gone.

My soul — my seer — will go as you have gone,

to straddle time and gather stars in both your hands;

and recollect with love the smell of wet spring soil,

that blooms over and over again with buttercups and daisies.

 

December 7, 1992