I would like to know the author of this poem.  If I be the first of us
to die, let grief not blacken long your sky.  Be bold yet modest in
your grieving.  There is a change but not a leaving, for just as death
is part of life, the dead live on forever in the living, and all the
gathered riches of our journey, the moments shared, the mysteries
explored, the steady layering of intimacy explored, the things that
make us laugh or weep or sing the joy of sunlit snow or first
unfurling of spring, the wordless language of look and touch, the
knowing, each giving and each taking, these are not flowers that fade,
nor trees that fall and crumble nor are they stone.
This is not all, if more is needed I can provide.

Hi,

That poem is written by Nicholas Evans and it appeared in his book
"The Smoke Jumper".


You can find more information about the book and also buy it here:
Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0385334036/qid=1024405294/sr=1-1/ref=sr_1_1/002-4500686-2556019


Google search terms:
+"The Smoke Jumper" +Evans +poem
://www.google.com/search?hl=en&lr=&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=%2B%22The+Smoke+Jumper%22+%2BEvans+%2Bpoem&btnG=Google+Search


If you require more information, don't hesitate to ask for a
clarification!

Regards,
paul_b_18-ga

The answer was very prompt and I appreciated the complete poem to
verify the hand written version I had.  Thanks,  Pam

From "The Smoke Jumper" by Nicholas Evans 

                 If I be the first of us to die, 
                 Let grief not blacken long your sky. 
                 Be bold yet modest in your grieving. 
                 There is a change but not a leaving. 
                 For just as death is part of life, 
                 The dead live on forever in the living. 
                 And all the gathered riches of our journey, 
                 The moments shared, the mysteries explored, 
                 The steady layering of intimacy stored, 
                 The things that made us laugh or weep or sing, 
                 The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the
spring,
                 The wordless language of look and touch, 
                 The knowing, 
                 Each giving and each taking, 
                 These are not flowers that fade, 
                 Nor trees that fall and crumble, 
                 Nor are they stone, 
                 For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand 
                 And mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand. 
                 What we were, we are. 
                 What we had, we have. 
                 A conjoined past imperishably present. 
                 So when you walk the woods where once we walked
togther
                 And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my
shadow,
                 Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze
across the land,
                 And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand, 
                 And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon
you,
                 Be still. 
                 Close your eyes. 
                 Breathe. 
                 Listen for my footfall in your heart. 
                 I am not gone but merely walk within you. 


://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=crumble+%2B+blacken%2Bmodest%2Bgrieving%2Bintimacy

http://216.239.39.100/search?q=cache:-00-SzR7f88C:members.aol.com/Mtngh/goodbye.htm+crumble+%2B+blacken%2Bmodest%2Bgrieving%2Bintimacy&hl=en&ie=UTF8