thoughts drop like ashes from a cigarette

anchored to the earth.
where the willows wait without wonder
the cows and me

though their not cows but steers
one day heading to the slaughter house
and  endless sleep.

they stare at me

a reflection in the mirror of time.

we share this knowledge of
not knowing when.

I'll try to be on time when my end comes.

            *   *   **

my daughter wants
to know
what happens when we die

well, i tell her, "we become
the trees
grass and flowers." and

she says,
"Maybe i'll become a flower."