Golden roses open, they are prone to resist
when the cold is secure and the wind feels sharp
Harvesting vestigial life in brisk black;
purposeless with rime and yards of yellow
Yet, the lions of springtime will arise
set aflame the dead trees and twigs
No longer numb, but filled
with fire, where sparks fly
We cry tears of honey,
running through the wet dew
with damp cheeks and dismal lashes
when the golden roses rise
and rest our weary feet