A WALK THROUGH THE TREES

When, in the proper season,
I am made to lay my ventures 
in the dust
and search about me for my
reference letters.
Let me not stubbornly die
like the mountain pine -
tall, black, ominous,
pointing diverse ways
in blind confusion,
losing myself in brittle bites
to a voracious wind.
Let me loose my hold
while still there are branches
to ease my fall
and may I lie proudly
on the earth,
a mound of bright brown mash
spilling forth fertile warmth
to cradle seed of my seed.

			Lucille Murphy