Lessons from a Juniper

You may be dead, but you aren’t gone.

Your trusty roots may no longer twist deep-down between the fire rocks and drink water from the earth, but I’m here drinking up the view.

You may be dead, but you aren’t gone.

Your waxy leaves no longer shade the gray vireo’s pink eggs from the afternoon sun, but your shadow cast at sunset is at least as important a role.

You may be dead, but you aren’t gone.

Your tiny, bitter berries no longer fuel the solitaire’s late winter wanderings, but this desert solitaire stands in awe of you, hope renewed, refueled for navigating future unforeseen challenges. 

You may be dead, but you aren’t gone. 

Your muted colors may not blend with the pinks and the purples on the skyward stage, but they never did, and after all, what good is a stage without its dancer?

You may be dead but you aren’t gone.

Your beat has stopped but I still hear the song. 

You may be dead but you aren’t gone.

The spirit of a being has a way of living on.