Beauty and the Beast: An Anniversary

by 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.