A poem

IF YOU can think of bone
Raying in a pale, secret pattern through
Flesh, if for you,
Bodies golden, white, and brown, caskets are
To hold a raggedly elongated star
Like a flower, like a stone,
Growing softly like a flower,
Softly growing like a stone,
If it gladdens you to know
That below stars other stars and as stately, Oh,
So stern and stately, go
Hushed and lonely ways,
You will not fear what is lying
Deep in life’s embrace,
White and starry,
White and very
Secret. Dying
Will be like a flower growing softly,
Slowly, softly,
Growing more and more like stone.