Linda Pastan

Wind Chill

The door of winter
is frozen shut,
 
and like the bodies
of long extinct animals, cars
 
lie abandoned wherever
the cold road has taken them.
 
How ceremonious snow is,
with what quiet severity
 
it turns even death to a formal
arrangement.
 
Alone at my window, I listen
to the wind,
 
to the small leaves clicking
in their coffins of ice.
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