Where they will bury me
I don't know.
Many places might not be
sorry to store me.
The Midwest has right of origin.
Already it has welcomed my mother
to its flat sheets.
The English fens that bore me
have been close curiously often.
It seems I can't get away from
dampness and learning.
If I stay where I am
I could sleep in this educated earth.
But if they are kind, they'll burn me
and send me to Vermont.
I'd be an education for the trees
and would relish, really,
flaring into maple each October—
my scarlet letter to you.
Your stormy north is possible.
You will be there, engrossed in its peat.
It would be handy not
to have to cross the whole Atlantic
each time I wanted to
lift up the turf and slip in beside you.