Hyacinthine bells are tolling dirges,

Infant snowdrops bow, and gently weep.

The crocus chooses not to break her sleep,

And tulips stay below, in earthen deep;

Their gaudy colours to themselves they keep.

Each bird and beast forgoes primeval urges.

Spring comes not in nineteen ninety-seven

To the garden where my laughing tot once played.

The roses he once sniffed are long decayed.

Lilies, poppies, iris…all bloom not, dismayed.

Pansies hope beyond all hope, their buds delayed.

The stench of Death o’ertakes perfume of Heaven.

Nor herb nor flower, nor fruiting tree shall grow.

Narcissi swoon with unborn buds, a-dying.

Cherry’s petals fall as tears.  Indeed, she’s crying,

Her sweet promis’d fruit to all she’ll be denying.

Creeping phlox lay prostrate, weak and sighing,

“O Sunshine of our Souls, where did ye go?”

All ponder, “Shall we see the Lovely One again,

Or has he journeyed to that distant, sacred spot -

That place from whence, alas, we return not?”

Windflowers wail, faint, expire and rot.

Disease and insects claim our once lush plot.

The garden, which knew only Joy, succumbs in Pain.

Grieve for the dark-eyed boy who doesn’t come:

Who resurrected this poor flowerbed with cheer.

O bleeding heart, feel free to shed thy tear!

Carnations wilt, for lack of one so dear.

Lilac, hold thy fragrant bloom until next year,

When Winston, dearest Winston shall come home!

                                                -Feb. to April, 1997

                                                                                    -Rev. April 14, 2005

                                               Copyright 2006 Christopher Boucher