Who do you think of when you’re alone,
in the nascent winter’s pale sunlight,
as moss shrivels into soil,
hours before the clouds allow snow to fall?

Does your dead lover beckon the ice?

Who do you remember when you’re alone?
before the young sparrows disappear,
and the sycamores still have their skin,
despite the morning’s cruel frost?

Does your dead lover sing in the trees?

Who do you miss most when you’re alone?
when the crinkled sky threatens more cold,
as the wind enraptures the last snake,
and even the stars start to shiver?

Does your dead lover lead you away?