What would you choose? I’d like eternal life such as the dandelions aspire to across my lawn this morning. They will shine all day in my imagination while they rise, their golden crown they’ll lift to throw away turned seeds, the fuzzy diadems plucked by the wind. I’ll be that stalk remaining, tall, to fall.
But also I will be the wayward seed descending to flush the storm drain and pick clean the rainbows of the motor oil’s sludge across the grates, and maybe I’ll descend with one of the tomorrows down that drain
and then—Imagination stops me here. My last poem will inscribe that paradise.