A grey cloud, in the sky overhead,
Like a squirrel skin uncurled.
‘I’m not sorry your body,’ he said,
‘Will melt in March, frail snow-girl!’
In the soft muff my hands grew cold.
Ifelt afraid, somehow confused.
How to recall the swift weeks’ flow,
His short-lived insubstantial love!
I don’t want bitterness or revenge,
Let me die with the last snow-storm.
My fortune told of him at year’s end.
I was his before February was born.
