I picked up the pieces of the seasons that were scattered all over the yard.

In front of the mirror,

we reenacted scenes from her life,

acts taken from four seasons,

reflected,

in  polished glass. 
When it was over,

we used our tears,

to wash the mirror,

and collected the extra,

to bless ourselves in Church. 
I slept in her bed that first night,

as my mind played tunes to me,

as if to entertain me,

and to nurture profound grief,

the same way the cycle of seasons never seems to end.