Burden of the apple tree, all our sins
upon you rest.
These candles burning, a defiant light
in time of darkness.

From dust to dust, too short the span
at best. No mortal hand has right
to still the bloom nor steal the light
from eyes so innocent.

Colder still the grief December bears
with its endless carols and north wind’s
sobbing breath.
Although we doubt it now

Spring will come again and grass will grow
on mounds  that settle flat with spirit flown.
The clay returns to ground,
a flower will bloom.