The Tree

It was raining on the day I was buried. I felt the droplets as they soaked the cloth I was wrapped in, as they wet my naked body. My loved ones, with hands tender and trembling, buried me just beneath the surface, planting a tree above my resting corpse.

I slowly adjusted to the subtle sensations of the dead. The micro-shifts of the soil, the static of my brothers and sisters as they took their liberties with my flesh, the distant appeals of birds as they searched for their true listener. And the slow, coiling embrace of those seeking fingers.

I rebelled in life, but not in death. As my mother clutched her newborn child, as her embrace grew ever tighter, did I allow that Merge I fought so arrogantly against before.

You birds, your listener has returned to listen to your warblings!
You lovers, find your shelter beneath my fingers-multiplied and search each other!
You sun, warm my upturned face; you wind, dance with me – I sway freely!


I awoke to the sight of butterflies floating in fugal formation above me. Their flutterings the only thing disturbing the stillness of the air.

I closed my eyes and heard their delicate flitterings, their wings wafting in a strange aroma that dashed me back to a time immemorial.

As I allowed myself to be intoxicated by their colloquy of scents and sounds, a faint sigh interrupted. And I felt her gentle fingers reach for my chest. And I sensed her lips seek out mine.