It is winter now
And the roses are blooming again
Their petals bright against the snow
My father died last April
My sisters no longer write
Except at the turning of the year
Content with their fine houses and their grandchildren

Beast and I potter in the gardens
And walk slowly on the forest paths
He is graying around the muzzle
And I have silver combs to match my hair
I have no regrets. None

Though -- sometimes I do wonder
Sounds of children ...
Running across the marble halls
Swinging from the branches of the roses
In the snow