She left in the blosoming of sprigs,
in the blooming of my Spring.

When I left her I thought her silly
and misunderstood the dichotomy of
our farewells.
Shame on her for she meant forever.

She left my knitted blanket ripen,
without a last "I love you" as a reminder
on my part.
Both our intentions withered.

And now my Spring has turned barren-
How ironic for time to end a life
at the sproutings of mine.

Farewell, my rosy weather;
may the breeze of the daffodils sway you to a Summer land.