I’d be a tree
in youth lean and supple.
Bowed, bent to accommodate
winter winds yet
re-leafing in full beauty
in my middle years.
Each fall a little rest,
each spring a resurrection.
A cycle onward, outward . . .
there’d be no final death.
My leaf litter rotting
as ancient limbs crack,
returning to earth
from which new life
and seeds will spring.
(Inspired by a reading from Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives by David Eagleman)
– Barbara B Feehrer
