The phlox shouldered its way up
Tight, then slowly opened outward.
Last summer, it had flourished,
Vibrant pink, fragrant sweet,
Butterfly haven, bee lover.
Then the devastating frost
Drove it underground.
She, like the phlox,
Had lost her warmth, her light.
The cold of her husband's death
Had chilled her to the core.
But she, too, would struggle to unfurl,
To reach for the sun, the light,
To survive, to grow
In the memory of his love.