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 softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain.
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am the morning hush.
I am the graceful rush
of beautiful birds in circling flight.
I am the star shine of the night.
I am the flowers that bloom.
I am in a quiet room.
I am the birds that sing.
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
By Mary Frye
I was taken back by this poem… as it is so often how I feel about him now. I was just out hiking around on the ranch at sunset the other evening… the air was cool – the first cold front of the year. The world was arrested, silent – save for a few cows traipsing through the brush. I remembered when the two of us used to go hiking together… we’d talk about everything from aviation and history to what defines something as “art” to each of us. He had such a love of the Texas countryside… it was home. For him, God existed in nature more than anywhere else.
He instilled in me a much deeper connection to and respect for nature just by experiencing what it meant to him. It is no surprise that I often feel him with me when I am out on a hike, or looking out on the ocean, or watching hawks soar above me. It’s beautiful to know that Mary Frye (and I’m sure so many others) might feel that same connection to the loved ones they have lost through nature.
Photo Credit: Sarah Treanor