Wishful Maple

When I die, everyone will notice. I want to make a scene. I am going to strip myself naked. Slowly. Piece by piece. Standing proud, limbs unsheathed, I'll shiver one last time and splatter red all over the yard. A timely pre-winter whisper will be my cue to come apart. When it is my time to die, the guard will drop and gravity will take over, slowly. It is possible my brilliant remains will be left on the knobby ground to rot. Or maybe, they will be swept into a crispy colorful pile, used as an itchy nap-time mattress or haunted hiding place and then cremated, autumnal ashes reaching a hundred nostalgic noses.