Bewilderment begot Death’s remorse
a flower, wilting in the cup of hands
flesh made against the source
as the prince, in all his
I would give for you
a garden, love, if only you should bear
those tears with silent devotion.
She looked on its gold, its promised names
of flowers not yet birthed
but as she wept she turned away
to reside among the fields:
for in that gloried cage she knew
no place for petals time had stolen
no roots in which its name might roost.