There is a beauty in nature
(milkweed leaf with sun behind)
but it is innocent of inspiration
to my weary grieving mind.
And robins may sing to the morning
(liquid music drips from the tree)
but they cannot lift the shattered heart
that has known death's finality.
Where now is the hope I lived with
(in the days before he passed);
where's the light of a new day dawning,
now the whole world is overcast?