Still Joy To Be Found

There is still joy to be found.
Pleasure in the optimism of birdsong,
Relentless waves against the beach,
The absurdity of flying beetles.

Those obnoxious, brilliant orbs,
Their color a distillation of every green,
Seem better suited for clinging
To the edge of delicate blossoms
Or moving tank-like through the grass.
But then those iridescent shells
Burst forth wings. What joy!
They take flight across the lawn,
Mad to find the next flower.

When I go, as I one day will,
Do not lay me out on white satin.
Don't paint my face to give it life.
Do not fill the coffin's edges with
bottles of liquor or pens or books;
Talismans of a life.

Burn me down and put my ashes
In a box of iridescent green,
the color of a beetle's shell.

I'll spread my own absurd wings.