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Poem

I stand beside a silver bed
Of ice and ask still why?
My heart filled with remorse and loss
While watching winter die.

The snow white fingers in my hand
That bear the scars of war,
I feel the life drain from their grasp
Why will you live no more?

The crystals on the trees are gone
Your mirrors shattered through,
The wind and storms have lost their soul
Now death has come for you.

Your silver blood lay spilled like rain
Each stream and river filled,
Who cut this wound into your heart
Who bears this murders guilt.

Your breath comes without dying words
Your grave a silent gate,
The fertile ground an iron wall
I cannot penetrate.

Farewell, the word I cannot say
The question still remains,
Who stabbed the knife into your flesh
Who caused your death in pain.

Each day passes with its emptiness
That lingers slow and grey,
Yet change I feel upon each dawn
Of something on its way

I hear a voice within the night
That whispers like the breeze,
The moon a sickle in the sky
Strange fragrance in the trees.

Then on one morning's golden edge
I saw a figure stand,
A slender woman clothed in green
A dagger in her hand.

She strode with beauty and with pride
Yet in her footprints lay,
Small drops of silver tinted blood
Upon the ground of May.

I saw a fire in her eyes
And youth within her breath,
And asked the question in my soul
Did she cause winter's death?

Is she the one, the murderer
has melted all the snow?
Is she the one that held the knife
And gave the vital blow?

I stand beside a silver grave
Of stone, your life is gone,
Yet knowing, still I ask again
Is spring, is she the one?

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