While tromping the snowless woods
for a Christmas tree
I stepped on a deer’s spine,
well, half a deer, really,
which is another mystery in itself.
I called over my son, and
we perused every crag,
the zipper of the vertebrae,
the innumerable pores in the fractured skull.
When I die,
may I be left to rot,
to be found as bones
by the curious future and
poked at with sticks,
even if for only a minute before
moving on to whatever future task is at hand.
May I be a healthy reminder
of awe
and intricacy.
