She told me every year I’d see her sisters
Until the last one came in unannounced
She’d pack up all my things, and take her leaving —
All this quite archly, carefully pronounced
The snow is a just a portent of the covering,
The coming Spring – that something we all crave;
The wind, it prophesies of our great changing
The cold is but the promise
Of the grave
Wow, this strikes hard. Excellent.