We buried her high atop the Tipton Street hill that day,
The coldest any of us could remember;
Icy splinters tore into our raw faces,
Stinging like the words
That had told us she was gone.
All her life, someone remembered,
She wanted it to snow the day she was buried,
And so we smiled that she had had her way one last time
And braced ourselves against the wind
Blowing through all our houses.