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Another of the poems from a recent NY Times.

When the wind died, there was a moment of silence
for the wind. When the maple tree died, there was always a place
to find winter in its branches. When the roses died, I respected the privacy
of the vase. When the shoe factory died, I stopped listening
at the back door to the glossolalia of machines.
When the child died, the mother put a spoon in the blender.
When the child died, the father dug a hole in his thigh
and got in. When my dog died, I broke up with the woods.
When the fog lived, I went into the valley to be held
by water. The dead have no ears, no answering machines
that we know of, still we call.

— BOB HICOK, the author of the forthcoming “Elegy Owed,”
which includes this poem\\

Cold (for Boston) here today - 19F a current reading. Will probably venture out at least to the Post Office later today with my lovely shearling coat that I got @ Filene's Basement back in the day. Not a wind in the world gets through that wrap. Oh, & tootling & stitching, too.