We died broadcasting dandelions
over dry grass
behind long shadows
under crackling sounds of cottonwood leaves
tumbling through Fall.
We died with handfuls of whirlybirds,
bounce across beds of cool clover
never noticing the deep Prussian sky.
We died longing for warm embrace,
hearing the sound of scraping plates
familiar voices and the encouraging slam
of a screen door
creaking floorboards and hearty laughter
coming from within.
We died soaring, in flight.