Annual report

1st anniversary of the death of my wife, and with apologies to Edna St. Vincent Millay for my slight adaptation to her Sonnet No. 2, which so precisely hits the spot -

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss her in the weeping of the rain;
I want her at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.

There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with her memory they stir.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell her foot or shone her face
I say, "There is no memory of her here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering her.