Hibernation

It’s winter now.
A sea of flaking whites with
Few Mahonias and Jacquelines blooming bright
Just the way you’d loved them.
Of flowers, now
I’d rather you be a wreath on my bosom
Than a lonely rose on the lapel.
The last time we walked down these aisle,
You were there,
A flower snipped off,
But, a solemn smile still
In the middle of roses white.
Now, on the day of last stride down the same aisle
I came not since then,
Let us go with you on my tide.
I’d stare; through the drone of sermons,
Hard at the stars
Till they blink and implode.
Then, we’d go
Gladly down the haven of that named burrow.