To Give

I will be someday, 

gone, 

that is. 

When I am, 

I hope the pine needles still grow thick 

covered thick 

with snow. 

I hope the air still whistles 

with sledding calls 

whipping along with it. 

And I hope I have left 

all that I can give. 

I hope my hands 

are tired from writing rebellious words 

and squeezing friends' hands tight 

swinging them in the summer holding in the winter 

and building up the bridges with my hands 

that will lead us together 

and calloused with dirt from trails others taught me 

trails I made for others

trails I learned to walk with my chin up.

I hope my breath

is just a whisper, then

having said many words of change

and fought many battles with my voice

and read aloud poems and books to cousins curled up on the couch,

someday children and grandchildren,

words I read with my voice strong.

I hope my legs are tired

from racing running pedaling skiing

pushing to the limit

coming back

and carrying groceries up the stairs after long days

and bouncing babies smiling up at me

and long days in the cold

days I spent walking onward.

I hope I leave

tired

content

having given

given all I have

until I am tired to my bones

and my heart has loved

and my hands have held.