This year, this year, this year is finally done
My mother’s ashes washed beneath the waves
And priceless friends have seen their setting sun
My tears, with other’s, salt upon the graves
Today the snow geese circle muddy fields
Small shadows, stitching new year to the last
No questioning the cut time’s sickle wields
The sharp edge of the future cleaves the past
I find the winter truer now than spring
It suits my sorrow, hand in well-tooled glove
But soon, a clever mocking bird will sing
and skin to skin, I’ll fall in love with love

Still, tangled in my hair, snow’s white will stay
December’s losses, part of greening May.