THE WIND blows hollow, from the South;
The mind shrinks back in wondering --
Yours was the waiting, Winter heart,
Somnolent hopes, all slumbering --
There is no din, just Nature's voice,
Clear as the stab of stricken pain:
Those who you call, won't come again,
Those you have loved have moved away.
The Cold's not gone, it's in your bones,
It's in the way you slowed-down move;
Yours was the Heart that gave, and all --
Body and mind and cash and food --
In chapters written sans regret,
You spent all the Spring you had within:
This wound is the sword of grief's sharp edge,
Ubiquitous part of human kin.