Permission granted
to stand at my funeral

and say I told you so.

Permission granted

to stand with Styrofoam cups of bad coffee and say,

"I told her not to go."

Permission granted

to stay safe and warm inside four walls with right angle corners,

and peer through screens.

While some of us

fling open the blinds,

unlock the doors,

unlace our corsets,

kick off our shoes,

and walk off,

bear-souled.

B-E-A-R S-O-U-L

We will squish idea mud up through our toes.

And I will go.

I will go out there where there are

no trails or trains,

curbs or curtains,

boxes or banks,

paved streets or parking spaces,

men or motors,

buildings or bridges,

no street signs or Safeways...

And you type into the comment box: BE CAREFUL

Oh, I will be.

I will be free, eager, willing, passionate.

I will be so much.

I will be fiery, hot, dirty, cold, sweaty, thirsty, joyful, triumphant, exhausted.

I will be reeking with woodsmoke and wild.

Oh, I will care.

I will care deeply about each animal and plant,

each shift in the weather,

each leaf and stem and root

and berry and egg and nest

and season and flower and seed and scent...

Oh, I will care.

And I will return full—

so full it will flow over like a fountain and splash onto your shoes.

And you will say, "That wasn't what I meant."

I know.

You meant... be safe,

And small. And quiet. And still. And less.

And normal and sheltered

and rhymed and metered and ruled,

like paper with neat straight lines.

You meant,

don't make so many waves or words or wanderings.

Buy a purse like mine.

Permission granted

to stand at my funeral

and say I told you so.

Be careful.