Have an apple at my burial, a fig, a plum, a pear.
Let them bounce upon my shroud & surround me in my lair.
There should be bulbs as well there, yes, & not the electric kind.
In between layers of my earth; tubers, corms & rhizomes bind.
Atop cast seeds of eternal blooms: statice, forget-me-nots…
& daisy, iris, marigold; all fed as my body rots.
One last request, hardest yet, you’ll need to plant these two with care.
Old red rose at my tombstone &, my feet, blue hydrangea fair.
My wish is to be a garden blooming always; save winter.
For then, my fruit trees, bare yet strong, will guard my garden’s center.
L.B.Stowe 