Spring, summer, winter, fall--
nothing changes, nothing at all.
"It's getting better," he tells her, smiling.
She nods her head, silently crying.
The children are grown,
her hair has turned gray.
"Soon," he tells her.
She looks away.
The wind rustles gently;
the leaves tumble still.
She walks toward the stone,
at the top of the hill.
The flowers she planted,
one bright summer day,
have wilted and withered,
faded away.
"I love you," she says,
standing over the grave.
"I promise I'll visit again,
someday."
