I have passed--
and perhaps
(though you knew of my research into transmutation)
you wonder how--
through
sunlight
starshine
snow,
through grain that has ripened
and the rain of autumn
and, penultimately,
after you left me to rot amid my experimental equipment,
through
a flock of birds.
And perhaps,
unlike my experiments,
I would now elect to be inert,
if you had not
taken what was mine:
my house
and my academic position
and Edgar, too,
and before this--
though I fought--
my life,
in an "accident" you engineered.
Stand at my grave, now?
Pretend--
as part of an intricate deception, which you have continuously delighted in--
to weep?
No.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am behind you.
A re:flection on the poem
Immortality by Clare Horner, 1934
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 awaken 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.
*
[public domain]
