They say she came and went with the seasons
Never quite sure why, but she had her reasons
The flowers would bloom and she’d run free
But, when the cold came to usher in winter,
Miserable with perpetual illness was all she’d be
She’d only live half the year truly free

Trying to find a cure, jumping town to town
Any doctor they’d get to check her out
Would just say “it’s a nasty cold” or thereabouts
Soon enough, they’d say, she’ll come around
Went to see my little friend, they all just frowned
She was terribly ill, there could be no turnaround

I witnessed the withering of an innocent soul
I held her hand, as she passed away, air so cold
All too often, a death such as this occurs
A sickly little girl frolicking playfully and bold
In the warm of sunny days, adventures galore
After the withering, nothing seems bright anymore…

February 8, 2008 / April 22, 2021