POETIC JUSTICE
Melinda Sue Pacho I Did Not Die.
Do not stand at my grave and forever 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 circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
Jack Gilbert How to love the dead
she lives, the bird says, and means nothing
silly. She is dead and available,
the fox says, knowing about the spirits.
not the picture of the funeral,
not the obect of grieving. She is dead
and you can have that, he says. If you can
love without politeness or delicacy
the fox says, love her with your wolf heart,
as the dead are to be desired.
Not the way long marriages are,
nothing happening again and again,
Not in the woods or in the fields.
Not in the cities. The painful love of being
permanently unhoused. not color, but the stain.
this entry was originally posted at http://blady.dreamwidth.org/766021.html. please comment there using OpenID.
there are already
comments over there and you can add one yourself, if you'd like. ♥
Do not stand at my grave and forever 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 circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
Jack Gilbert How to love the dead
she lives, the bird says, and means nothing
silly. She is dead and available,
the fox says, knowing about the spirits.
not the picture of the funeral,
not the obect of grieving. She is dead
and you can have that, he says. If you can
love without politeness or delicacy
the fox says, love her with your wolf heart,
as the dead are to be desired.
Not the way long marriages are,
nothing happening again and again,
Not in the woods or in the fields.
Not in the cities. The painful love of being
permanently unhoused. not color, but the stain.
this entry was originally posted at http://blady.dreamwidth.org/766021.html. please comment there using OpenID.
there are already
comments over there and you can add one yourself, if you'd like. ♥