Ours bones will rest for dust to scavenge
like Pacific surf striking twisted cypress,
woven into the jutting cliffs of Monterey.
The end, as we will know it, will arrive
with the anticipation and surprise
of birthday candles or x-mas morning.
It will lick our faces like a new born puppy.
Wet steamy drool turning cold and damp
like thick white fog where ocean meets sand.
The end, as they will know it, will go on
for days, months, and years after we are gone,
until they, the living, join us as memory.
Our bones, bleached fragments, broke
by waves and rocks, ruled by ancient time
to take all we were and return us—
as scavenging dust,
blown in through a window
to settle upon open pages
of a book, such as this,
or breathed in by a child,
so we may exit
in the glory and blessing
of a sneeze.