A Drop of Sweat

By Casey Loken

Now

I sit on my front steps, survey the weeds,

bushy cracks in the sidewalk. The air

is pink, a soft pause, pastel

between thunder. Your sister called today

with details of your sickness

and death, how

she took your ashes back

to where you were young, scattered them

in streams and playgrounds,

visited your old

sweetheart. They sprinkled you

into his garden.

By now you have settled

in soil, are swimming

up trunks of tomatoes, inhabiting basil,

oregano, thyme. Soon

you will be piquant in salads.

You will live

in atmosphere, join hydrogen,

oxygen, ride rivers,

and one day

as your son shoots baskets

you will emerge,

a drop of sweat

on his clear young forehead.

He will wipe you away,

intent on his game, just as you

would wish.