Not Complaining Poem by Patti Masterman

A thousand years from today, I think my having been here
Will make a definite difference: a huge tree
Roots itself in the soil enriched with my ashes,
And it could be that when the wind whistles through
Those branches, it will sound off like a cymbal,
Caressing the bare bones of a symphony lamenting
That I am no longer present here:

Many springs from now
Great tree roots in the ashes
The wind sings through it
Bare shoots of new birth appear
Fresh melodies from my soul

In the true scheme of things, time spent here
Is but a drop, in the huge, cosmological bucket-
The time spent elsewhere is immeasurable by any timescale.
But to keep it in perspective, death is just a return
To the pre-birth state, when you were just as dead;
Still in the pre-existence phase of becoming alive,
But didn't have the wherewithal to realize it.
And it wasn't so bad, being dead then, was it?
The only unreal part of existing, is the being alive part:
When you think of how much time is spent being dead,
Being still living, is a freakish conception,
From that point of view. But I'm not complaining.