It was St. Valentine’s Day when your husband reported br Your disturbing disappearance, but it was days before br When you gently kissed your children’s cheeks br For the very last affectionate time. br Who can understand the winter sorrow of your demise? br The barren trees and Michigan ice br Slightly more than a month to your never-returning spring. br br No one knows when they will smell the lilac scent br For the final time before they reach heaven’s shore, br Nor when the day arrives when you’re unable to walk again br A garden path strewn with roses or black-eyed-Susan; br But at the still youthful age of thirty-four, br You should have known many more flowery springs. br br When a man gives a young woman a wedding ring, br There should be faithful promises of protection br That he implores himself to daily keep, br His own reality of happiness should be inseparable br From her well-being and her desire to smile. br The converse should never be true, br To hurt the one with whom you spent your youth br And created the children of your pride. br br How was the man who had you by his side, br The man who called you wife, br Able to hurt you and end your life? br How was he able to discard parts of your body br In the barren winter woods patiently awaiting br The return of spring and the marigold air br That you are now forever unable to breathe br br Some people allow themselves to become animals br Unworthy to grace a cage br When they forget the human art of empathy and compassion. br The universal Heart of God will weep br Slow lonely tears this spring.