A crimson rose demands to know my name.
Incredulous, I ask her why it matters,
or does she think all humans look the same?
I start to tell her but attention scatters.
Another soon chimes in: how old are you?
Who'll water us when you're no longer present?
I bend to tie a shoelace on my shoe.
The earth, dug raw, more pungent than unpleasant,
as welcoming as ever. It remains
the one connection to the dust I came from,
the ashes of the fire in my veins...
The rose bush is persisting in its tantrum:
Who's going to take over when you're gone?!
The monument's for two. I was the one.
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