And now what’s left sits down in the cellar.
It’s chilly down there with only a small white
box of thin cardboard insulating my remains.
It is exactly what I would have picked out
for myself, simple, recyclable, but I’m surprised
my daughter doesn’t think about how I hated
the cold. Perhaps she’ll write a poem about
me, and the thought will inspire her to move
me upstairs to the walk-in closet where the heat
rises and at least it’s not so bone numbing.
I’ll rest warm until they carry me out to where
my husband lies, to where the towering Taos
pines shadow a tiny adobe chapel hugged
in the quiet arms of the Sangre de Cristo hills.