There will come the day
when the ashes tossed to wind
are mine.  Pick a day
of heavy breeze,
I would not fall to ground
on which we’ve trod but
climb like song before I settle
down to sea, deep and purpled green
from which we come. May
a few, some burning bright,
rise above the breathing zone
and find their final footing
beyond the gravity of home.

Will Kirkland
October, 2016