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Oh, broken bloom, once fairest of them all
Upon your tomb your tear-like tendrils fall
Chum of the thirsty bee, brittle, bereft
Of all the beauty that once you possessed
And hands eager to pluck your bonny grin
No longer reach to marvel at your skin
The flower-field is silent where you fell
Save for the strange-sweet tolling of a bell
Somehow spring, summer, autumn intertwined
Now winter is a garden flower-lined
The bud, the bloom, the bowing of the head
Are not in vain; flowers are never dead
…though Time gestures with seasons, seed to husk
And moves with ease like darkness over dusk
The tomb becomes the womb where Mother Earth
Cradles the petals waiting for new birth
Mourning does not become the lover of
Daffodil, tulip, lupine and fox-glove
Beneath the sheaf of leaf a garden waits
To touch the berth of earth with heaven’s gates
© Janet Martin
