Sorrow is my own yardwhere the new grassflames as it has flamedoften before but notwith the cold firethat closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive yearsI lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white todaywith masses of flowers.
Masses of flowersload the cherry branchesand color some bushesyellow and some redbut the grief in my heartis stronger than theyfor though they were my joyformerly, today I notice themand turn away forgetting.
Today my son told methat in the meadows,at the edge of the heavy woodsin the distance, he sawtrees of white flowers.
I feel that I would liketo go thereand fall into those flowersand sink into the marsh near them.
