The ground beneath me is frozen,
my breathe turns to fog,
the wind caresses my skin softly
I feel it's icy cold hand on my neck.

The mourning sun comes up sullen,
depressed into the horizon,
slowly rising, turning ice into mist around the grave,
burying life, and love, and loss.

An old oak stands bare behind the stone,
its bark, wrinkled and aged.
I place cold flowers, plucked from the earth,
laying life on death, so it may wilt away.

A tear frozen on my cheek,
the moment stopped in time,
me and my grief alone,
I miss you, dear friend.