Spring comes to my garden

restless in its foolishness

to locate the rich verdure of seasons past.

Gentle rains whisper with such affection 

to the blossoms waiting to grow

promising grandeur

are they to awaken and bloom.

Though there are rainbows in the sky

I cannot recall a moment

when I thought I could live without you.

Autumn remains seeded in my heart

and thistles burr deep inside.

The soil which now speaks of life 

is what blankets you.

Are you warm enough underground?

How do I weather this storm?

Here without you I am but a wilted rose.