beauty and the beast: an anniversary | jane yolen

it is winter now,
and the roses are blooming again,
their petals bright against the snow.
my father died last april;
my sisters no longer write,
except at the turning of the year,
content with their fine houses
and their grandchildren.
beast and i
putter in the gardens
and walk slowly on the forest paths.
he is graying around the muzzle
and i have silver combs
to match my hair.
i have no regrets.
none.
though sometimes i do wonder
what sounds children
might have made
running across the marble halls,
swinging from the birches
over the roses
in the snow.

(Source: exceptindreams.livejournal.com)