White Twigs

If I put my heart into the ground,
it would burst a spring for these roots.
But there won't be a burial for me.
I will rest upheld, like a nest
in the upturned clutches
and knuckles of branch.
I'll blend into the freckled leaves,
and in late autumn
when the wind goes,
there I'll be
my bones, white twigs
belonging to the trees.