If I were to die here, would you take me back home?
Take my remains and bury them under a maple tree.
To lie forever in a place where;
I learned to love, my first young fiery love.
Where my passion for prose and poem was born.
If I were to die here, please take me back home.
I want the seasons to be sifted into my grave,
The cold dry winter air breezing through my remains
The spring bud ripen into new life right above me
Feel the humid summer drip onto me as I lay still
And have the slow deciduous descent of maple leaves as my quilt.
I want to lie forever in no other place, than my sweet northern home.