My heart has shattered like a stone,
The snowy clouds swell low and dark;
The embers die from lack of wood.
Sat at table held face in hands,
Listen for laugh, is this a dream?
Think of gardens filled with roses.

Every spring we pruned the roses,
Beyond the stumbled wall of stone.
Winds they whispered of a dream,
When night has fallen, land is dark;
Caressed her body with calloused hands.
As we walked home through the wood.

Summer flees, so we split wood
My lover beside me flushed like roses.
Pulled out thorn, deep in her hands
Laid kindling on our hearth of stone.
A swift sickening has brought the dark;
She swoons to me in fevered dream.

We talked of things of hopes to dream;
Fall we planned in our home of wood.
With lights aglow room not so dark,
Through open window scent of roses.
Cooked our dinner on counter of stone
Heads bowed in prayer, we clasped hands.

Planted bulbs, washed dirt from hands
Loved our world in a simple dream,
On shore of pond skipped a stone.
Grief did carve initials in wood,
Her lover sprinkled petals of roses;
Contrasting red, her hair is dark.

Winter flow long shadows get dark,
Held on tight with clenched hands.
In the garden we cut back the roses;
Has this year been but a naught dream.
Bed with four posts of polished wood
Her picture rests on mantle of stone.

In the dark I woke from a dream,
With my hands built coffin of wood;
Wreath of roses in her vault of stone.