Let me molder on the surface of the Earth. Leave me on dirt with dross and peace. Let the four seasons sweep over my husk. In blood crush dust and petrified grease…. A feast for my insect and animal pals. This circle is my best and oldest friend. I was given to this promiscuous box and now—I return it back to its righteous end. So grow! —Oh, wild oaken ladle! Someday you may scoop the sludge from my deciduous knee caps. If I have to, I will change my approach to suit the drought. My sun worn bones will sprout curlycup gumweed. While the wind will carve all of the chondrocytes out. I will take pride in my rotting. Leave it for me—Leave it.
Rotting, decay, decompose, my will