Harberton, a poem

When I die, bury me at the Estancia.
Make room for my body, move the fence and find me a patch of grass
      under 
      Lange Trees. 

Face my body towards the cove so that I might watch as the flowers
bloom in the garden;
the geese waddle through the grass; 
the trees hunched over as the wind tries tirelessly to 
break		        their		        spirit. 

Allow my bones to d e c o m p o s e (as the whales do in buckets of rainwater). 
Adorn my grave with rocks
from the sea 
bright blue shells--scalloped. 

Behind me 
       devilish, 
               jagged, 
     black peaks 
kissed with patches of snow…even in summer. 
To my right, the little white home with green shutters.
To my left, tall forest with dark grey trunks and bright green canopies. 
In front of me…the sea.

I want peace knowing where I will take my final rest after my little 
life. 

I want to hear the wind from the ground now above me and 
feel the salt on my stone 
which sleeps on the grass 
that simply reads, 
        “Te Amo, Tierra del Fuego.” 

When I die,
don’t tell them how I lived, or where I traveled, simply tell them this; 

in that small cemetery guarded by a creaky, wooden, grey fence there are views 
of the past… 

When I die, 
tell them to breathe in the sea; 
feel the tall grass and lavender between their fingers; 
walk among the Lange Trees. 

When I die, 
tell them, 
	       Go to the Estancia.
	       Wamos ir a la Estancia, vamos. 

and then you too will know.