As if nothing had really changed

Again late afternoon light

Fading in the imperturbable pines.

This morning there was ice

On their needle-tips and the grass.

I am walking to think of

What I can possibly say to him now

Who has his mother to bury.

That I have done no less, and less well

Than he will, is cold comfort.

The forecast is for snow and it begins

With a few soft wet flakes

Hanging in the air as though unsure

They are in the right place.

I think of the woods growing colder,

A doe and fawn standing

In a quiet clearing, nose-to-nose,

Their breaths steaming 

In the still air, the doe licking snow

From the startled fawn's face.

I am not with them, do not see them,

But I know they are there.

Perhaps that is all I can say to him.