I want to be a Lady of the Sycamore—a sycamore in winter bare and luminous
white trunk standing straight—
serene among dry brown fields
branches spreading tall against the sky
misshapen into beauteous forms
unshaken against the wind.
I want my ashes to rest
between two sycamore
at the eastern gate of heaven
the first rays of morning sun
greeting my grey earthly remains
warming the dark dust
beneath opulent, tormented arm
white and luminous
offering sustenance to the dead.
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