He takes a step onto the frosted grass
With pleasure, saving steam with every breath
With envy, laughs at children as they pass
With light, draws forth into his fateful death.
He pulls his watch out from his dusty coat
That’s caught the chill of his last winter’s air
Lost is the time from which he will take note
For wind is catching flakes of his despair.
His crippled hand is raised for one last touch
Of brisk and coated pine that stays awake
Through deep and harsh a hold of frigid clutch
Of stuck and withered coats of ice’s sake.
Pine that holds this rustic winter’s force
Is less than that of this old man’s life course.