Stop up my ears with willow wands. Sage for my eyes: its seeds will send out roots into the wet and vitreous. Its thick, soft leaves will billow from beneath my brow.
For my heart, a stout angelica, a stem four inches wide, broad leaves like canopies sheathed fast to it.
Let my fingertips sprout basil leaves, my nails fast-rooted to the soil, a sweep of anise succulence where my hands had been.
My head ablaze in borage, my soul in mint’s insistent tendrils. Let me fade each season into the earth and sprout up new-restored.
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