March Second of Ninety-Nine

fourteen years
have passed
since the fury
that called
you home.

I worried,
fearing that
the frozen dirt
that covered
you was cold

even though
blood-red roses
blanketed the
ground where
you lie.

a bird
has begun
an early spring song
out my window
these mornings.

its wistful ayre,
sweet against
the iced pane,
brings you to me
to cheer
this dolly polly,
reassuring me that
ground holds life.
cold preserves.

as I uncover you,
you are still here.

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