Let the sky clear with southern winds
To push the soil across my dusty home
Please, please do not bury these
lungs that took those desert breathes
Where old men scan the streets with smirks
 

From porches, too wise to die
They rub their chins to solemn the
working day, That blister

the sky and memory

of summer
Please, please do not bury

those working hands that have yet to finish the work
Of gardens started by a need for lemons
In ice tea, to break the heat that never seemed to burn cold
 

until old age, shaping the summers where
Trucks were married to dirt roads
Please, please do not take

these roaming feet that knew rust when gas was almost free,

where long nights were held

in the arms of lovers that made birds sing
To a woman in white
Who never have to wear black
That would forever be called Mrs.
Ma'am and mama
 

And she'd be waiting for those birds to sing
Again for her own children
And when they did
She'd hear them right by her in the heavenly sky
Please, please do not bury the last lips
 

That kissed my wife
When I die