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Greetings, blog followers. It occurred to me that following the chapters of The Manor House might be tricky to maintain the continuity week to week. I’m still writing the occasional poem, so I thought I’d post some from time to time. Please do respond with comments. I’d love to know who is out there reading.—Thank you from Kim

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When I die

My body will rot like compost

or burn like an old pine log

My scent—patchouli and orange—

will remain in my sheets and sweaters,

dissipating in days or weeks

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When I die

The eggs and apples I bought

will be eaten by others

or tossed away

My clothes dispersed

to family or charities

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When I die

they’ll close my bank accounts

cancel the newspaper subscription

any medical appointments

notify pension and social security

put the house up for sale

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When I die

the Balkan dancers will miss me

My life’s furnishings and objects

displayed in a yard sale

for strangers to pick over,

perhaps to buy and value

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When I die

my essence will drift away

a memory dwindling like smoke

while my ecstatic soul, free,

will rejoin its Source

as a raindrop falls into the ocean