The door of winter <br />is frozen shut, <br /> <br />and like the bodies <br />of long extinct animals, cars <br /> <br />lie abandoned wherever <br />the cold road has taken them. <br /> <br />How ceremonious snow is, <br />with what quiet severity <br /> <br />it turns even death to a formal <br />arrangement. <br /> <br />Alone at my window, I listen <br />to the wind, <br /> <br />to the small leaves clicking <br />in their coffins of ice.<br /><br />Linda Pastan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wind-chill/
