I’d rather die at home,
before the picture frames,
the thirsty plants,
the unequivocal candlelight,
fade away.

The slanted ray of morning sun
lights my tree, the garden rake
and dripping hose,

the self-seeding blossom
that comes every year,
tall and straight since
the youngest stalk took hold,

in the earth,
deep and firm.

cc: CC 2024