We don't stand at your grave and weep.
You are not there. You do not sleep.
You are a thousand winds that blow.
You are the diamond glints on snow.
You are the sunlight on ripened grain.
You are the gentle autumn rain.
When we awaken in the morning's hush,
You are the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
You are the soft star that shines at night.
We don't stand at your grave and cry.
You are not there. You did not die.
Mary Elizabeth Frye nee Clark [adapted]
Photo by Ilona Wellman, The Stranger