Lying recumbent, I remain for you, sour,
Amongst the graves of those relieved; I sense
You will not return to me this hour -
Or evermore – but I crave your presence.

Come each January, bleak thoughts seem to sting,
My heart might as well be covered in ice.
But like the rebirth and renewal of spring,
Come the fourth month, I see you in Paradise.

And though we knew not each other rather long,
Nature deemed we knew each well. I remember -
You assumed a gray and white plaid scarf, hummed a song,
Held my hand, and told me of God’s ember.

Though you are of this earthly dust no longer,
I can only think of you and grow stronger.