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 wake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds circled in 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.

Anonymous

the well of grief - david whyte

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief,
turning downwards through its black waters
to a place we can not breathe...
They will not find the source from which we drink.
The secret water; clean and clear.
Nor will they find in its darkness, glimmering,
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else.