Only the dead can die

[billy]

i keith, i do like your poetry but this one has me thinking too much. i'm not sure if winter is dead, a child is dead, or it's just a poem about sorrow, some thoughts in poem. of course it could be my head that isn't on properly this morning.

As we cough cold into the forests
pale cascket, the burning cloak casket
of sunlight is taken down,
empty streets keep us fireside. would this line be better reversed with firesides keeping streets empty?

Snowfall beckons a lonely child
to follow a ball into the road,
the crunch and soft thud, laid still
as temperatures drop.

Frozen mourners gather mist on funeral days,
sharp black trees carry distant crow calls great image of foreboding.
around hard graves, weathervains only watch
as church-bells warn the town.