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  • © 2013 Sigman Shapiro All Rights Reserved

Request

When I die
do not lay me down
in this dry land
so far from home,
but bury me
in the oak-clad hills
where cool November rains
can liquefy my bones
and carry them down,
through roots and rocks,
till they are once again
part of the western sea.

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2 Responses

  1. Your poem touches deep feelings.

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