I bend and sift it through my fingers 
And watch the wind dissolve 
Those glazed hazy afternoons, 
Shattered bits, 
That fell like rain when clouds swept near 
And filled the sky. 

In those late hours of opiate sun, 
When leaves burn brown and curl 
And break from brittle twigs 
To lie beneath shallow snows, 
That melt before they cool these tears, 
Footsteps shuffle by, 
Where once they strolled and paused. 
Gloved hands hide frozen fingers 
That touch no more in passing. 

Those blooming flowers, decayed and we -- are dead. 
Yet after snows come bud and spring, 
Will there be no spring this year?