A few weeks ago, on a day when I was missing him particularly badly, I found a page torn from a notebook with a poem written on it in Barry, my late husband's handwriting. Because of where I found it I know it must have passed through my hands since he died in February 2016, but somehow it didn't register with me then.
This is the poem, by Mary Elizabeth Frye. I expect many of you know it
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 sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you waken 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.
Just a day or two later I cnanced upon this poem by Rumi
and became a plant
I died as a plant
and rose to animal
I died as animal
and I was human
Why should I fear?
When was I less by dying?
Barry's ashes are scattered here where daisies grow and on the shore with flocks of birds all around, and on the day of gentle autumn rain when I wrote this post, these poems comforted me.