We do not know it when we lie dead in the grass
As spring breeze would gently play with our hair.
Others do not know that they are dead from us
Though they are alive, up and about on their feet.
The fly on our flowers is perhaps alive on us too
When it would buzz about us as if we are alive
When our ears are now bright yellow marigolds.
The fly is blissfully unaware that it is dead from us.