I imagined the beauty in the world would die with you,
flowers wilting, crinkling like tissue paper,
the sorrowful sun dimming, leaves turning black
and falling like stones from the trees,
the earth rippling in suffering.
Yet, it did not happen.
Apart from my grief-filled tears,
my fractured heart,
little has changed.
The creek still speaks to me at the narrowing
where the stones gather, still respectfully
whispers in the eddies. The hairy woodpeckers
still cling to the Ponderosa pines,
feeding larvae to their hungry chicks,
who will soon take their first flight.
The creeping Oregon grapes still bloom and
the saskatoon berry shrubs burst with white petals.
Sun rays still illuminate the forest floor where
dancing bees celebrate a wild-flower garden masterpiece.
Beauty has not forgotten you, my love.
It honours you.
