A Hopi Prayer by Mary E. Frye
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 white doves 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.
Brock-A-Boy went to his eternal tennis ball-laden, pig ear-plentiful, bacon-scented open range in the sky 8/13/10
He has joined his little daughter Lola and a pack of well-loved four-legged family members before him.
Brock Lee Baker, you will be missed and forever loved.
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 white doves 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.
Brock-A-Boy went to his eternal tennis ball-laden, pig ear-plentiful, bacon-scented open range in the sky 8/13/10
He has joined his little daughter Lola and a pack of well-loved four-legged family members before him.
Brock Lee Baker, you will be missed and forever loved.
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