When I’m gone,
I’d like to be a tree.
Taller than my 5′ 3”.
I’d like to feel my age
In the grandest sort of way.
I would stand as the sequoia seem–
Giant among the redwoods.
This business of brush-like strife,
Stubby and shrubby… I’d rather not be
So trampled upon in my next life.
Is it too much to ask of cosmic dust?
If one could hope for nuclear fusion,
Could I not settle for photosynthesis, instead?
If we really are just the stuff of stars,
There is very little distinction between gold and dirt.
– C. Green