The wind bites my nose like cruel Jack Frost
and my chapped face turns as red as a rose.
My breath escapes me like a fleeing ghost.
When I’ll next see my Jack, God only knows.
I’m not the only one who’s cold, I think
to myself as I turn from the stone slab.
I don my poker face and try to blink
back the tears, wishing these days weren’t so drab.
Skeletons, yesterday so vivid, now
shake bony fingers in a ghastly wave
as I crunch along through the trampled snow
on my way home from a fresh winter’s grave.
My eyes burn as I face the frigid air;
longing for someone who’s no longer there.
