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: