I do not fear death;
I do not mean to be noble nor proud.
I simply do not dread being harvested from the soil that has unearthed me.

I have lived enough life for a lifetime.
My petals have been carefully picked
and carelessly played with;
they have wilted in woe
and blossomed again in spring.

I have travelled enough earth for a universe.
My roots have spread through fertile soil
and suffered the depths of barren land;
they have absorbed the kindness of the sun
and survived the wickedness of the rain.

I have bloomed enough beauty for a book.
My leaves have flourished in warm summers
and shrivelled in treacherous winters;
they have sprouted in spite of harsh winds
and bled the cuts of sharp knives.

I do not fear death;
I rejoice in its coming.
I await the day I am stripped
from the desolate ground
I have stood tiredly upon.

For then,
all the life and the earth and the beauty
that my petals and my roots and my leaves
have endured
can rest peacefully at last,
and lay tightly pressed
between two pages.