Yet, In Death

In life you sustained
softness
by attachment.
False freedom from
a fixed stem
allowed to
join the breeze
but from your branch.

A whole life,
lived?

Yet, in death
you weave
within whisps of air
across a path
or pile.
Your heaping adventures
chip away
as little bits
toward nothing.
Until a once fastened
stem remains.
Your empty ghost.
Pieces
scattered
along the adventures of

an afterlife.