It is winter now,
and the roses are blooming again,
their petals bright against the snow.
My father died last April.
My sisters no longer write
except at the turning of the year,
content with their fine houses and their grandchildren.
Beast and I potter in the gardens
and walk slowly on the forest paths.
He is graying around the muzzle
and I have silver combs to match my hair.
I have no regrets. None.
Though -- sometimes I do wonder.
Sounds of children ...
running across the marble halls,
swinging from the branches of the roses
in the snow.