Her life’s sorrow began in its summer’s spring
Is it not for the wants of a heart…
Which reason each of its seasons bring?
Yet, unlike forlorn prairie snow-fence pickets longing in steep for a winter’s fall
She knows not
Her wait openly differs in sadness or apall
For it is an empty chilling wind that sweeps past and thru
A weathered phalanx of faces swept
When heard is a chilling howl, numbing to the cold, cold company for which she was the given due
And for whose tragedy we all have wept...