Yellow flowers strewn across
A slated checkered plane.
The white imparts an early frost-
The black, she will never return again.
And here upon the centered squares
She lies, a shallow heap.
And tangled in her pearl grey hair,
Daffodils join her in unsettled sleep.
Oh how the doctors labored sore and long,
But did not labor well.
"She died," is what they said was wrong.
I hope they labor long in hell.
For I cannot tear my mind
From this public bed.
I'd see it still if I were blind,
And feel the longing as the image fled.
