Passing

She stands amidst the willows
and the wild flowers in the quiet
of his garden, where his caring hands
once nurtured newborn sprouts

She strolls the paths where they
lingered on daydreams, where hands
once joined at tender fingertips,
and wanting lips met in embrace

She perches on the garden bench
that he carved with his love for her;
and she watches as even the leaves
lament and surrender in sorrow

The crispness of autumn claimed his
body and the winter would chill
his grave, but the earth where he rests
is all that sweeter for his presence

No more comfort of a blue sky has she
to grieve; in the dimming light,
she passes through the gate to where he
sleeps and the cold stone gives little
comfort to her shivering hand

He will not return to her in the spring,
nor will she feel his lips meld with her
own, nor will her faint heart
ever know a love such as his; in mourning,
she weeps once more