The title is only a name, "Tyler Matthew," and the poem never explains who he is. It doesn't need to. By the time we reach "though you left us behind," it is clear that the name belongs to someone who has died and that the poem is speaking to him directly. The plural "us" suggests a circle of mourners rather than one lonely speaker, though the poem leaves that circle unnamed. What it gives us instead is a promise, repeated until it sounds like a pulse: "I still feel you with me."
The first two stanzas are built as a matched pair. Stanza one is daytime: a mountaintop, the desert sun, Green Valley below. Stanza two is night: a balcony, the city lights of "Tuscon," the desert moon. The lines run in parallel ("The desert sun shines" / "The desert moon shines"), and each stanza ends by looping back to its opening image. The first begins and ends with "Looking down on Green Valley," the second with "Standing on a balcony" and "Standing on that balcony." That circling acts out grief. The speaker passes through a day and a night, two very different views, and keeps arriving at the same sentence.
The imagery is plain but carefully placed. By day the landscape is blunt: "Its hot and its dry," with prairie dogs running "wild." At night the tone softens to "a beautiful night sky," and the stars "glow like wild fire." The word "wild" passes from the animals to the stars, tying ground to sky. It also turns cold, distant points of light into something burning, which fits the closeness the speaker insists on. Even in memory, this place is restless and alive rather than still.
The sound of the poem is conversational. The lines are short and the stanzas mostly avoid rhyme, so when rhyme arrives in the third stanza it lands hard: "No amount of miles can keep us apart, / No death can stop the beating of your heart." That couplet is the poem's boldest claim, and the sound clicks shut like a lock behind it. Another echo comes at the very end, where "the moon and the sky" is answered by "I know you fly high." The same sound has been waiting quietly since "dry" and "sky," which both sit in the fifth line of their stanzas.
The third stanza widens everything. "Mountain or balcony, New York or Arizona" stretches the map from two particular spots to a whole country. New York appears only here, so judging by the line, the speaker knows both places, or at least imagines the feeling holding across them. Death is described as a problem of distance ("No amount of miles"), and the poem solves it by declaring that distance doesn't count. The senses do the work too. The speaker can "feel" and even "hear" a heartbeat that, in literal terms, has stopped. The poem knows this is a paradox and doesn't flinch from it. The repeated line "I know you are with me" is the second time the speaker says "know" rather than "feel," and the shift from sensation to certainty reads like a vow.
The poem's real turn is vertical. In both opening stanzas the speaker is high up and looking down. By the end, the direction has reversed: the person who died is "Watching over the desert, the forest, the moon and the sky," and he "fly[s] high." The mountain and balcony begin to look like places chosen to be nearer to him. The speaker looks down on the world, then pictures the dead looking down in return. The forest is a surprise in that list, since nothing earlier prepares us for it. It suggests the watching is not limited to the places the poem has shown.
The surface is unpolished, with small slips like "The the," "Its," "Theres," and "Tuscon." They don't weaken the effect. If anything, they make the voice feel unguarded, like something written for the person it addresses rather than for an audience.
The poem matters for how clearly it shows grief attaching itself to place. Landscapes become a kind of memorial, and a simple structure of two parallel scenes followed by a widening finale lets repetition carry the feeling. It makes no grand argument about death. It keeps saying, in different settings, that love has not stopped, and the insistence is what moves the reader.