One Wednesday when the world is grey
And the wind is calling
We leave the covers and the bed
And open wide the door.
For ancient reasons, half-believed
We trade the warm indoor
For the flurries and the howling
To be clothed by the gale.
We go out in just these bodies
Too fat, too thin, too old
Praying with our mouths full of dust
And our eyes sealed with ash.
The wind blows where it pleases, and
It tears the shroud from us
Until we see what we’ve become
Beneath our winter things.
Now forty days is far too long
To live thus, in winter
They will bury empty caskets
And give our things away
Till one Sunday when spring has come
They find us on the porch
Fast asleep, finely dressed, faces
full forgotten by Death.