Some things return in spring

The brave spears of the garlic rustle in the damp hair of the wind off the marsh brushing them: a sound you will never again hear. The maple is waving little russet hands. Long brown scaled buds line the beech twigs. Spring explodes into hundreds of daffodils on the hillside that was yours. Tulips strut their brilliance bowing to the sun where you will no longer pass. My tears are brief years after you died. Still my thoughts are bouquets like the red tulips I can never lay on your invisible grave.