How like a child we find the face of death,
Here when the winter starts to lose its touch,
Life like a lady left defenseless, much
Like trees grown twisted by the March wind's breath.
And everywhere I see the signs of spring.
The garden now erupts with yellow blooms,
Across the meadow flowers grace the tombs,
In absentminded winter birds may sing.
What of the cancer gnawing at its host?
This grand lady defies the dance of death.
Here beats a heart as wild as winter's wind.
A lifetime gripped in struggle with the ghost
If old diseases now is left bereft,
And charges Time be gentle at the end.
Jay Cohen