Mother has ought to do but wait,
To breathe softly,
inhale,
exhale,
inhale,
until the great, great, great-grand daughters
of the centuries old sequoias growing now
are themselves, centuries old
and layers on layers of needles
and soil and bark
have buried our rot,
the last of our bones.
The last of our monuments
gone from shape to shapeless,
to mold and vines,
by ice heaves
and streams current worn away,
our remains melt into Her skin
as crushed shells into sand.

And She, not caring to remember,
forgets,
leaves not a trace,
not a hint,
not a clue.

We, who sought to subdue
are subdued and subsumed
into forests floor,
fodder for chipmunks hole.
Black snake slithers through us,
but there is no knowing,
much less a shiver up our spine.