If I die younger than time

If I die young, leave my belongings
to the faces I never thought of,
the books- go search the tracks and the hills
for a girl asleep between daisies, and plant, like tulips
papers at her feet. Give the music to the child whose violin strings
were torn by practice and stretches in the sunshine.
Let my clothes feed the fire, where no memory or hue of discoloration
pinches the sight or the plans of others, weary by the lack of serious
Just leave the bones to my mother, she's the only one praying
and leave the fingers to my lover, where by my hands
he will know the ways.