When my time comes to dissolve,  

to let go of form, let me be water and air

so I might slide freely across the rough surfaces

of the earth, not stuck in rock, or dirt 

or hewn stone.


Let me be mist—rolling across mountaintops

in the bright morning light, 

crawling the valleys and crevices,

kissing all that cross my path—

precious or reviled. 


Let me circle the earth, a marine layer,

to make the moss and ferns grow,

and wrap my diaphanous arms

around the alder trees,

cloaks of gray-green lichen 

climbing up their trunks.


Let me push patiently out to sea,

and spread myself low and thin above the waters.

Let me stare down at my own reflection

and wait for the sun to rise and rise

and lull me into the nothingness

that is everything that was.  

 — AE Hines

Nominated for Pushcart Prize.  Originally published in California Quarterly, Vol. 43, No. 1 issue.


© 2017 by AE Hines.  All Rights Reserved.  

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