Beneath the maple trees and snow-flecked leaves,
buried by spade and shovel, my fledgling girl,
with down and tremors wreathed,
was ready dressed in onyx and pearl.
So I will sing a song for my daughter,
a song for the daughter I could not save,
a lyric and melody that I taught her,
and sing her into her grave.
Too soon branched, she fled the nest,
from father’s arms and mother’s breast,
shaking sick then suddenly still,
once to air by wing, now to rest,
resting within Winter’s quill.
So I will sing a song for my daughter,
a song for the daughter I could not save,
a lyric and melody that I taught her,
and sing her into her grave.
A Story, A Symphony 