I want to have a way with words like Alice Hoffman,
the way she would describe
how and why you might
simply die in a conscious act of
ceasing to live,
from extreme heat and sadness,
without her ever once mentioning the words
hot, or sad.
You would burn down like a
lone incense cone to a tiny
immolative pile of ash,
having blazed from a smokey fiery pyre
to a lost wisp on the twilight breeze.
Everyone who read you would know
just how that feels.
There would have to be flowers,
something exotic, but slightly New World,
twisted, variegated roses and purple clematis,
twining unseen into a thicket,
where your ash will gravitate and settle,
never once having needed
to slither and sweat
among the dark, back alleys,
window panes and velvet sofas
of a Tennessee Williams play,
a Carson McCullers story,
a Walker Percy novel.
Alice, you have cool breath,
Even through my restless sleep,
waiting for this heat to break.
Sylace- having slept all day, and having awakened feeling lost.
(and especially hoping that Ali enjoys this...)