Refusal

                                              "The Soul of the Rose" by John William Waterhouse

I shall not build a shrine for you —

oh, no — not yet —

you are not gone from these woods.

The fire on the hearth is slowing its heat, 

but embers still shine beneath graying ash;

memories are vivid, not yet pale.

We were caught within epochs,

strayed from paths we were meant to follow —

how else could we have met,

creating this melody together?

You are stilled by the years,

yet your shadow dances against the wall —

there is music in silence, too.

Do not pine away or offer regrets

for what was left unsaid or undone —

miracles occur without our assistance,

without our prior knowledge or approval;

be glad if only for the greening of grass,

the gentle lilt of springbird's song.

I am quiet, yet my actions rise up in protest

against the coming of dusk;

I do not accept the inevitable with any grace,

I will not listen to the scythe slice the wind

as it comes ever closer to our threshold. 

Be warm beneath the cloak I wove for you 

of words, of sighs, of murmurs.

I shall lean all my weight against the door,

going without sleep, never pausing to rest,

in order to keep the dark one at bay.