Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am the essence of clear blue sky; I am the yearning to climb very high. I am the breeze you feel as you spot; I am the rapture of building a blot. I am the rustle of a canopy in flight; I am the flicker of camp fire light. When you pass through the door into open air, I know you are smiling, I'm the wind in your hair. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die.
The above poem is written here with permission of the author, Allen Roulston. Mr. Roulston can be contacted via email at: maxtrack@inforamp.net |