In a secret lonely place
Death will come to me
With a trowel not a scythe.
For what I leave is all I am
And I hope that’s fertile soil.
See the happy Sugar Skull
With blossoms and buds
Filling its empty sockets,
Painted naked bone
Vibrating in electric color,
And that long toothed grin
Cast in blooming satisfaction.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Scented Herbage of My Breast”)
Life Immense 