Graveside Visits
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
He stands on the hill overlooking his grave. He is silent and still.
Yes, he is standing in the graveyard.
But he is not dead.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
It's breezy in the spring.
John's hair is tousled, waving slightly in the breeze. He stands at the black tombstone. His back is straight. His chin is high. His eyes are never deviating from the stone that reads with a simple, yet paramount, name.
The breeze ruffles John's hair again.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
It snows in the winter.
John trudges through the snow to the black tombstone. He stops in front of it. There is snow collected on the top of the smooth surface.
A hesitant hand reaches out and John draws his gloved finger through the snow, seeming to mindlessly draw for a moment. There is a small smile on the tired-looking face.
Then, John's hand completely brushes the snow away altogether as he crouches to clear more away from the tombstone.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
The autumn is cool. Unseasonably so. Nonetheless, John makes the trip to the gleaming black tombstone.
There is the soft pitter-patter of raindrops against leaves as John stands in front of the tombstone. He hadn't yet noticed the rain- it's not falling hard.
When John does notice the rain, he looks away from the tombstone and raises his gaze to the sky.
John closes his eyes.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circle flight.
John falls asleep, once, at the tombstone. Thankfully, it's summer, and the night is warm.
John wakes up to the sound of birds, perhaps, as they fly overheard. He seems a bit bemused, looks about himself and realizes where he is.
He looks up at the sky, watching the birds glide away.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
John very nearly cries one night when he notices a shooting star fly by overheard.
It's easy to see the pain in John's posture, the way the he presses his fingers against his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.
Shooting stars are hopeful.
Wish upon a star.
Looking at how John visits the tombstone so much, it's easy to imagine that he only has one wish.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
He stands on the hill overlooking his grave. He is silent and still.
He is standing in the graveyard.
But Sherlock Holmes is not dead.
I love this poem so much. I thought of Sherlock immediately, awhile ago, when I read this poem, and I'm not sure why I never wrote it. I know someone did a story to this format exactly, almost, but I push the fact that once I found that format, didn't read the story so mine wouldn't be biased. Not trying to copy an idea, just putting my spin on it.
Thanks for reading.