Bits of data
Fly.
Sooner or later
I shall die.

I
Wonder why
I
Should care
Where
My words will go
For I know
That the winter snow
Will cover all.

Perhaps a few may recall
A word I said
When I am dead.
But in my graveyard plot
I shall know it not.

Why this conceit
On my part
that others should repeat
Let alone understand what lay in my heart?

I would
Do good
But know
I have not always done so.

Sitting here in this winter weather
I see a feather
Float on high
Through indifferent sky.
The wind will sigh
When I am gone
But not for me,
Though I shall be free
As wind and sea.