Deeply rooted, planted firmly, time has softened my bones.

Once, palms that cradled faces now gone, even the structure

suggested, the curve of moss like flesh, and the trees groan

with my voice, their roots like veins, arteries, and somewhere

deep in vegetable memory was a dusty table, wooden floors

and heartwood bright and deep, slow kisses on lips

now long since faded, and the remains of me buried deep

in bracken and old memory. If you tread here, step lightly,

feel the reverence of my joy touch you, my life still golden here

long after I am dust and my ghost no longer skirts

the edges of eternal dreamless sleep and memories

soft, full, honey-warm and sweet, and the hubris

and ugly matter that made me undone, leaving only

peace, silence, and the slow unmaking of a woman gone, still loved

by the trees, the mushrooms, the moss.