The snow flakes fall heavily;
Icing over the barnhouse roof,
Turning the fields to cream
And the haystacks to floating cakes.
The early ice cut the land deep.
The crops and cattle will die.
Leaving nothing but icy confections.
And the farmer will only have
One withering cherry tree
A gorgeous tree
With icicle leaves
And branches like fingers
Begging for warmth.
It has the beauty of standing
When all else has fallen.
But the staunch defender
Has seen life's torments.
It's seen summers pass
With the drying of land,
And autumns come and go
With the changing of clothes.
She had been as
Fair and pure
As the cherry tree.
An innocent youth,
Radiating inner joy.
A prize not worthy
For the noblest king.
Yet she loved him so,
Making there parting
Much more dark.
She withered away
One winter's eve
And with one last breath
She whispered "my love".
The farmer bore the task
And with his own hands
Laid her to her bed
And planted the cherry tree,
A grave mark, above her head.
Three weeks pass
And the snow still falls
The fire no longer burns
Old age keeps the farmer
A prisoner in his house
And being a deperate man,
He takes up his axe
And goes into the yard
In the following spring,
A young couple in love
Journeyed by the house
Where there eyes fell upon
The grace of a cherry tree.
And beneath that the tree
Was a farmer buried in a
Soft pink funeral shroud.
Too dignified to harm
The last remaining mark
Of his lover gone.