How to Fly (in Ten Thousand Easy Lessons)
By Barbara Kingsolver

Behold your body as water
and mineral worth, the selfsame
water that soon (from a tree's
way of thinking, soon) will be
lifted through the elevator hearts
of a forest, returned to the sun
in a leaf-eyed gaze. And the rest!
All wordless leavings, the perfect
bonewhite ash of you: light
as snowflakes, falling on updrafts
toward the unbodied breath of a bird.

Behold your elements reassembled
as pieces of sky, ascending
without regret, for you've been lucky
enough. Fallen for the last time into
a slump, the wrong crowd, love.
You've made the best deal.
You summitted the mountain
or you didn't. Anything left undone
you can slip like a cloth bag of marbles
into the hands of a child
who will be none the wiser.
Imagine your joy on rising.
Repeat as necessary.