But what of warm winter,
where the grass hasn't a chance
to whiter and die,
like the rest of us,
where a single meadow wildflower,
grows with wavering courage beneath
the thin, fretting frost.

Not yet cold enough
for it to finally go along,
with the birds and my father,
yet suffering so that the chill,
Oh, that frightful chill,
penetrates the very cells that
allow it to carry on.

And what of the wayward wanderer
Treading without direction,
with spirit breaking and
eyes heavy with knowing,
mind numb as their fingers,
lumbering (and) without knowing,
crushing its perseverance.