For you,
plow my silent body
into arid soil.

There,
where I  lie mute,
plant your seed.
I will hold your fragile roots.

There, tangle in a word,
your word.
Become your word.

Like a tender seedling
whisper to the light,
swell into testament.
Burst above ground.
And then,
dare the morning to sing louder.

When I, trampled,
watch the colors of your voice
slice the sky into a
thousand vibrant wildflowers,
I will know I died
to live again.

In my silence I will scream
“This is your voice,
and it shall be heard.”