it was because newly buried
in a thawing spring grave
she had hidden keys within
her thin white shroud and
now lay, as she’d wished,
below earth’s cool moist ground,
transpiring into nature’s hold
as she had dreamed it in life
on her back porch, short of sight
and breath, her face uplifted
above a necklace of tubes
toward the birches, grateful
for the blush of sun and breeze
on her cheek. She’d known
what she wanted, how and where
to rest, but not too soon.
She was only ninety-three.
First, she’d play the moon awhile,
beckon her drifting familiars
to her shore. Grandchildren, cats,
daughters, divorces…a galaxy.
No need for locks or keys,
nothing of value, she’d say,
only this.
Her two adult daughters are her heart. She loves live jazz, lives in Somerville, MA near a no-frills market where produce is fresh, prices low, and shoppers include folks from all walks, even poets. She’s a writing tutor at a local public high school and a founding member of the Z Street Writers.