Some stories are set in stone,
their endings never to be righted,
carved in ice and in copper grown.
I walked through gardens, not alone,
each bloom born of hope unrequited,
of stories long since set in stone.
For one dreamer: a garden all her own,
countless roses for a heart unquiet,
all rimed in ice and copper grown.
Blossoms of glinting metal shown
for every regrown hope benighted,
her endless story set in stone.
With futility such beauty was sown.
Only one mortal has ever delighted
in all that ice and copper grown.
Her story is one you've always known,
no happy ending or lovers united.
Some stories are forever set in stone,
carved in ice, in copper grown.