Spring

She wept pure tears
on white homespun
silk dresses.
Slowly she stripped off
her dainty cream gloves.
She ran and skipped
over to her corner
of the garden.
She buried those gloves,
buried those cream gloves
deep in the fertile soil.
Through every breath of
her existence she had
worn those gloves.
He had stripped her.
Her image of man was
buried with those gloves,
deep in the dark, dark silt.
Next Spring
she grew snowdrops over
the gloves.
Their soft white blossoms,
fragrance of glass memories.
He walked,
slowly
he walked.
As she sat watching
her snowdrops,
with each blink
one pure drop fell.
She pulled out one
gold strand of hair at a time,
for each drop that fell,
just one,
for each drop.
She rose weakly
her life drained in
those snowdrops.
Her white dress
stained from the soil.
She could feel
it beneath her nails.
He walked,
slowly he walked toward
her.
She could feel
his soft arm brush
against her back
as he knelt down.
His dark eyes embraced
the flowers
in the garden
in the field.
But he picked,
just one,
and walked away.
From then on,
there was to be
no more Spring
for her.