I would that I were with those dead
there in their restful deep,
were still my bones in earthen bed
to know but soundless sleep.
I would that sparrows all have flown
afar from tombs sun-steeped,
that lichen, ivy, moss alone
come crowd my little grave,
and ravens caw in mournful tone
from perches in the stave.
I would that I were gorged by rot
within my narrow cave,
that none who pass me ever ought
to think on one so small,
just leave me to decay to naught:
soil-yellowed bones, a pall—
dear gods, unthought-of after all.
© 2017 Christie Florit