Bird-scatter me.

Bury me in the air —
the ground will be too hard,
the trees too far.

The sky is right —
past the timberline
of a shadow-less mountain
fifty miles east from home.

Do not hesitate
to cry, to reach out
and pull me back to you.

It will still be me,
this body and this skin
and these hands.

But I will not be there,
my ribs shifting an inch each way
in expectation of larger things.

When I die, leave me
on the rocks in a linen dress,
and remind yourself
of the pull of earth towards sky.

As I forget the color
of bedroom walls, the sound
of stars, memorize them
so someone will be left who knows —

and when bones are lying
bleached on the ice, break them
so birds can come
to piece the dawn back together.