Some frogs become lethargic on the first coldwinter nights
Others crawl like comatose white roses under ice
Though roses do not bleed to death when their veins break by frost
Yet after frost dethrones the rose the leaves shatter to loss
And when the resurrected sun approaches what is cold
And touches what the queen of ice has kept from growing old
All that will be found under the soil and grass and ground
Are carrions and croaking frogs, bellowing aloud
But nothing of the roses
Nothing left to keep them proud
Nothing of the petals or the pearls of silken sound
Nothing left for us to decorate the morn of spring
Nothing left for us to aid in mournful suffering.