The Spring is nearly over for you,
friend;
She soon will find the strength to
say goodbye;
And will you understand that in
the end,
Though still she loves you, April
flowers die?
More than I fear for her, I fear
for you;
Though young, your eyes are
steadfast, deeply kind,
Your hopes shine soft about you
like the dew;
Your love is given; you’ll not
change your mind.
She hesitates to wound you, yet I
know
Your cradling eyes will soon be
drowned in pain,
Your empty arms will ache, your
feet will slow;
Her laughing ghost will not be
easy slain.
She asks me, as her mother, what
to say
As restless winds drag blossom
from the spray.
(May,
1987)
