You used to write about the snow.
How you would sit before a fire
relishing Bach. Distilled desire
attended you. Nowhere to go,
Nothing to do but stroke the cat.
Your comforts were well understood.
Your cat and you are gone for good.
There is small comfort now in that.
I’ve read your poems since you died.
I know the tale they had to tell.
You knew what waited all too well.
That snow is piling up outside.
You knew that soon enough you’d go.
But you rejoiced in Bach, the fire,
the cat. Your poems proclaim desire
attained. Your poems defy the snow.
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