I imagine sometime after my burial
they'll stir stew and toss in an extra clove
of garlic to honor my memory,
look at the night stars like brown butter,
see the sky as milk and thyme,
pigeons will be salt, auburn leaves
just a pinch of cinnamon and nutmeg,
our sun a great dandelion
that cannot be pulled.
They'll light an unscented candle
before a late dinner
and cradle lanterns wherever they go
like squirrels with hazelnuts stuffed
into their cheeks, and gray afternoon rain
will no longer ruin their day,
but inspire an idea.
I'll return in brief moments
as they go on chilly walks, trails
dimming with evening light,
somewhere in the rings of a sycamore tree,
somewhere in the sweet citrus of an orange,
woodland songs piercing nervous silence.
On the wings of a blue jay
covered in seeds
that will drift along a hill,
and months later,
there will be a gust, thunder,
something green sprouting
along the mud.
--
Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka Japan. You can see his work in the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Heimat Review, York Literary Review, Mersey Review, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English. Find him on Twitter @Ruishanewrites