I would like to think that when I die
my atoms will disperse not in a frenzied diaspora
of splintery Balkan states but an orderly exodus,
some flowing into the tribe of red birds that
swoop each morning from the snow-tipped pines,
some into the pines themselves, and the willow,
others into the row of forsythia and honey suckle,
into the squirrels, the butterflies, the flaming
hibiscus, the squadron of tiger lilies, the modest
althea bushes and towering silver maple, into the
dragon flies and occasional faun and chocolate roses . . .
so that I may behold the garden as it beholds itself,
through no lenses but its own, without me, yet me.