Sunlight on Ripened Grain

Indie's gone. We were hoping for weeks, maybe even months. Instead, we had hours. He's left a yawning hole in our lives and in our hearts.

Do not stand on 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 sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn's rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in the 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.

by Mary Elizabeth Frye