her hands are heavy husks of drying corn,
peach-pale and veined with rivers of her blood.
if it is true, in dying we are born,
i lived to see her withered blossom bud.
her eyes reflect a clouded blue, and gold
of realms beyond this mortal lump of earth;
her hair a snow-melt whitened with the cold
of shrouds like dusty swaddling clothes of birth.
her flesh from dust to dust returns, and life
springs up again in feeble sprouts of green.
she was a daughter, sister, mother, wife,
but now she dwells in cities bright unseen.
her progeny remain these feeble years
and at her headstone bury all our fears.