Mother, tell me–
when my time is up,
where will you carry me?
Will I rest beneath the roots,
a quiet breath in the belly of earth,
whispering my stories to the trees?
Will I rise on the wind,
woven into laughter and lullabies,
a sigh on the lips of those
who still remember?
Will the tides take me–
fold me into waves,
scatter me in foam and salt,
so even the ocean calls me home?
Or will I be soil,
feeding the seeds of tomorrow,
threaded into all that blooms,
all that is, all that will be?
Or maybe–just maybe–
I will be birdsong,
carried at dawn, weightless, free,
a voice without a name,
yet never without a home.
And when the time is right,
I will gather myself again–
from root and river, wind and wing,
rising, returning,
whole once more.
More on poetry:
Subscribe to our newsletters
Each of our Bylines sends a newsletter every month and we also send out a ‘Best of Bylines, featuring a selection of the best articles from across the network
