She’s still watering the flowers
although they’re bent and brown,
in hopes, life giving showers
will restore their withered gown.

Each morning at the window
she’s looking to the sun
expecting reaching limbs to bear
the fruit of labors won.

Then for a little while
signs of life seem to appear
but the season’s growing colder
and the creeping sleep draws near.

As frost sparkles from each stem
you will find her tending still,
pouring water on the flowers
that lie dead upon the hill.