Counting up the rings of life.

When you die

they'll talk about you as though you were a tree

a solid mass

forever growing and dying

and shedding

and blooming

with tomorrows.

They'll say you didn't look old 

missing

signs that were there all along

collar chokes

tempests of famine and drought

etched in your DNA

visible only when cut down.

They'll remember the time you showed them how to plug that contraption that gave them trouble, how you rent a truck and moved them across town, how you fixed them BBQ when they were hungry, how they took themselves in and out of your backdoor when they needed shelter. You remained as young as they were, forever school mates looking for the next adventure.

All our hopeful acts are etched in our growing wood

and these they will count up when you go.