Sonnet #222

The birds will not remember me, nor bees
nor butterflies, but that they lived better and more
will be legacy written in every shadow in the sky
When I am gone, and mud drowns all my sores
There will be living birds that sing memorials
and do not realize to whom their song adores
The honey will be sweet where flowery vials
bore the bounteous nectar and butterflies tore
chrysalises open for gardens painted on the wings
And generations of the flyers hid among these leaves
next to my door, where otherwise was nothing
lawn of grass, mowed, ignored, wilderness bereaved
Where now there is a garden because I lived here
Pilgrims fly in memory of my gardens that were