Requiem

The lady in that garden sings
Her dirge among the rose
and lily
It astounds that she mourns yet
In the midst of fruit and flower
Her song, it hurts,
and comes from hurt
What pain has been her muse?
The air itself, lumbers so
With the burden of her cries—
And the weight of tears
Which heaven seek, this awful song of loss.

The flowers, in their season, die
But the lady doesn’t see.
She plants herself
In the soil
and sings to their ghosts.