It’s an
odd comfort
that it is
always raining somewhere
Old watering cans
collecting water
Tawny pines
lofty, sighing in the mist.

When my bones
are laid out
like a picket fence
in a wooden coat
they will drink
with the roots
and stone
and earth.

And when I am but
dust or atoms it will still rain
maybe I will be bricks
in a building
or some tarmac slab
something functional
or a peony flower
or even forget-me-nots
it will still rain
and I will be gone.