‘I love these spring blossoms, yes the pale pink ones. Plant them over my grave…’  I tell her. She rolls her eyes.

I've said the same about plumerias and scarlet gulmohars.

Would it be too much of an effort for them, after me, I mean getting them from the nursery?  
But I'd be cremated, in all probability, turned into ashes. And haven’t I, repeatedly, asked them to donate my organs? I can be quite a handful.

settling dusk
the moon hangs
on power cables