I offer a wreath of words for consolation
for how can I make the silence of flowers speak
bound by a stranger, signed by a cold white card,
gardenia and rose withered in a week?
Flowers can draw the desolation from the eye
looking on smothered ruin, war torn field,
but only words flowering from humans
have ever lain upon the wounds and healed.
In this sad death must be the hour to say
Man can no higher than perfect his time
with the calm and order of a loving home
whatever mountains of career he climb.
What an achievement to write against his name —
more difficult than all degrees, all prize —
to walk in peace among his bickering race
striking no man a blow by hate or lies.
My wreath must go to the living not the lost
though all too small to match death’s dreadful cost.
Source: “Borrow the Spring” by Amy McGrath
