Saturday, February 28, 2009

The Shortest Month

Before the summer, before the spring
When the snows had blown and gone
I sat at your bedside, listening
To winter rain's whisper song

"It's nearly planting time," wistfully
You sighed with a crooked grin
You lay there in bed so peacefully
Worn body so frail and thin

A man is more than his bone and blood
Without it, he ain't a man
A clue you'd wished that I'd understood
A riddle you'd learned from the land

But I don't understand your passing
The finitude of your breath
Your body bent low like a sapling
Before the grim gale of death

So before the summer, before the spring
Each year in the shortest month
I'll lay at your graveside, listening
For whispers of spring to come