The idea for this poem came to me as I watched television funeral coverage following President John F. Kennedy's assassination in November 1963. To me, at the time, the Spring that "will not return" signified President Kennedy.

Mourners at the Funeral

We who march behind the hearse,
have no heritage but a curse,
and a cloud of dust.

Through ashes and dust and broken glass,
barefoot we pass, slowly,
by the once-clear stream
where the forest used to be.

We move into the gray twilight.
The days grow shorter;
soon they will disappear.

We have failed to halt the Winter,
failed to ransom back the year.
We know that Spring will not return:
we are mourners at the funeral.