Taj Mahal poem

Are you planning, when I die, a Taj Mahal?
I hope not. I hope you're never fooled by the lie
of fossils.  Death is not white stone, it's just decay
and vanishing, and a perfect removal
from the stony world. Don't build a Mahal.
Instead, be sorry for a time, and blank
for a time, and then meet somebody else
and pick up life again for a time.
And I hope the wind moves through
the strands of the green grass as a comb through hair
and then moves on, and vanishes away.