while the kettle boils Ⅴ — when I am gone, what remains of me

I’m afraid, like flowers left unwatered,

I’ll fade and be forgotten when I’m gone.

I hope my influence outlives me—

like a flower, dried and pressed, framed in time,

or encased in epoxy, to be marvelled at for years.

A seed adrift,

finding soil in a distant land I’ll never visit,

a time I’ll never see.

What if like potpourri I nestle in a quiet corner,

a whisper in the air—

a trace of fragrance?

What if my words could stir minds that I’ll never know.

My story carried by a wind and etched into the bark of a willow.

I hope an echo of my name

can be heard in a different century—

distant,

but not forgotten.

—amber.