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Because I’m old enough that middle-aged women

offer their seats on the bus, I am, quite naturally I think,

spending more time these days pondering my death,

and I’ve decided (because of course I have control over such things)

that when I die, I’m coming back as a tree,

my toes probing the dark humus, my body a sturdy trunk,

straight and tall, my head a crown of leaves 

glowing golden in the sun, holding hands—well, roots—

under the soil with other trees and plants, anchored

in storms while swaying to the music of the spheres, 

open to the sky, reaching for the light,

providing homes for birds and squirrels,

shade and shelter for pilgrims on their journeys, 

unconcerned with politics or religion,

race or sexual orientation, expanding or defending empire.

I don’t know about you, but I think being a tree 

sounds a lot like being in heaven;

it certainly beats wearing wings and harping on a cloud all day.

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