John McFarland

When the last wind moved through the cedar branches,

it carried your name softly into the hills.

The earth did not mourn with thunder or rain,

but with the quiet falling of leaves

onto the patient roots below.

You lived like a tree beside a long river—

steadfast through winter, generous in summer shade,

never asking the birds to sing your praises,

only offering them shelter when storms arrived.

Now the fields bend gently without you,

and morning light settles differently on the grass.

The garden remembers your footsteps.

The stones hold the warmth of your hands.

Even the distant mountains seem to pause

beneath the slow turning of the sky.

Though your voice has gone into silence,

the world still carries traces of you:

in the trembling aspens after rain,

in pine needles scattered across quiet paths,

in every stubborn green thing

that rises again after cold seasons.

We will think of you in autumn forests,

where gold leaves drift without fear,

and in spring, when branches bloom once more

without needing to explain why.

No monument could hold a life like yours.

Better that you remain here instead—

woven into rivers, soil, wind, and light,

returning gently to the great living earth

that keeps all things for a while

and never truly lets them disappear.