The Lady, She moves on,
She cannot stay,
She hesitates: She stops,
She turns, then moves away.
She leaves me in good cheer,
Her passing marks the birth
of yet another year.
But wait. I stop - half-grinned - in guilt,
As I watch Her flowers wilt.
It marks a death too.
A year dead, soon to be two:
Eighteen's too many,
but Eighteen's too few.
The Lady, She moves on,
She must, She must, She cannot stay.
When Winter is gone,
can Spring be far away?
