I want children to play upon my grave.
Fragile kites let out on lines held in sticky hands,
Pockets weighty with throwing pebbles;
Ant-army marches across greenest grasses,
Knees drawn high and feet bare
to the first timid days of summer.
Childish voices, noisy and forgetful
of the solemn nature of
life, six feet below the living.
What are you thinking of, Mother Dear,
as you clasp your cherubic child before
you and gaze off into the distance
between courses of honeyed tea and buttery toast?
The movements of the moon?
Mycology and mineralogy?
Or the sweet deliciousness of another few minutes of sleep,
so you can dream you live in a world where
mothers are the engineers of their own mornings?