|Make me an arrow when I am gone,|
With head of flint and shaft of birch
And swallow-feathered tail.
Make it as you remember me,
Not over-fancy, straight, or strong —
Since I was none of those.
At midnight in the wilderness
Where we first met, go, draw your bow,
And aim the arrow high.
Whisper my name, release the string,
And launch it toward the stars. It will
Not reach them — nor did I.
An arc ... then stone returns to stone.
The shattered shaft decays to soil
In which new trees shall grow.
Tailfeathers soon tear loose to drift,
And gathered will then line a nest
For some small creature's young.
These endings worthy of a tool,
And of a life: to serve, and then
Complete the circle. Home.