Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
I have always loved this poem.
The moment when, after kneeling and grieving and losing self in loss
there is a silence into which a bird sings
a flower grows
a beetle scuttles
a bird's wings flutter
and you look up from death and see life.