The moon. There she is. The grass wet so wet, and everybody sleeping. The rabbits even. But me. Awake with this steaming drink, on the toilet of all places, just thinking. Thinking about bright tall daisies and the dead beneath them. How if, like a moose, I were one day to simply fall down and stay there. To die just like that. To fall On The Earth. Yes.
Suppose if you will that our lives are like this: that no matter when we die we will land on earth, and not, say, on asphalt or carpet sixty-five stories above the ground under florescent lights. Imagine falling, when it’s time, or laying your own self gently down knee by knee and beginning, at the very instant of your finish, to nourish the soil. To contribute.
I imagine walking around eating shrubs all day, knowing that yes, one day, I too will be eaten. That worms and crows and every nary tiny hard worker will one day help disperse my good body just so. The rain soaking me into the soil, the earth so welcoming that I may aspire (could it be so) to become a fern. Or dare I say it. Cedar.
Now, beavers. What I want to know is do they ever take, say, ribs or femurs for building? I mean, why not? See. If we knew that we would fall on the earth, we could each of us prepare for death, right? We could talk about it. What kinds of seeds do you carry? I for one would have California poppy seeds sewn into the cuffs of my pants, into the brim of my hat. I would not wear synthetic fibers because that would be littering.
And I would have moods, I’m sure. One fine spring day I might put a sunflower seed in each shirt pocket, just in case. Or I might, in a warm rain, get naked and go into child’s pose right here between the carrots and the beets.