bequests

TO my children, let me leave
my love of beetles, their bright backs
gleaming, God's little gems

and of fungus, diverse and startling
in the world's damp places

and of words, that bubble on your tongue
that turn flips, that warp and warble,
bright gigglous things.

Let me bequeath
a chain of prayers, precious
to the God of beetles.
Prayers he gathers up
and stoops to bless
as they trundle over his palms.

Let me teach you
more than any thing, this
that your words too
are dear to him.

My children, bring him your prayers
as you gave me dandelions
and bruised mushrooms:
never doubting my delight
you pressed them eagerly
into my palms.