It's asking a lot

For us to drive by these rows of stone
some high and narrow, some low and slanted
for us to wonder who might have asked to be on a hilltop
or under a cherry tree for purposes of enjoying
pink pedals from the defrosting earth of March,
to make us say, "I prefer to be burned into ashes."
These things distract me with ache,
stronger from the my mini SUV drive-by

My preference - to sit chest high in endings

An old acquaintance, I hear, is dying
(and not in the way we all are dying)
and all I can think is how goddamn fortunate she is-
her with all this time to give directions
to lay in the breeze of her living room
choose songs for her own end
to direct the important things like
churches and plots and what kind of tree
and how her knowing is bitter and still craved