Not all rivers
end up in the ocean–
doesn't make their journey
less worthy.

Not all love
ends up in a lover's arms–
doesn't make it any less
worthy.

Do not stand
          By my grave, and weep.
     I am not there,
          I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
     Do not stand
          By my grave, and cry—
     I am not there,
          I did not die.
— Clare Harner, The Gypsy, December 1934

sleep-heavy eyes, my hand reaches for you
then flinches – you’re nowhere in view.
the imagined shape only a breath ago
fled like a bandit
into dawn’s dissolving glow.
now my waking mind falters,
disappointment finds the door
through which you chose to leave –
once more.

I'm picking up

       What you're putting down

                   You didn't have to throw

                                     it

                                     at

                                     me.