The black dog pushes to be walked,
Though ice lies thick upon the path;
Shadows lengthen halfway across my eyelids.
Ravens fly and no one says hello.
Death begins to occupy my mind.
Cold wind sweeps across the road.
I feel like Proust, always complaining,
Wanting to stay in bed, hide from the wind,
Hide from the sun creeping over the trees,
Hide from the cold, hide from the dog.
Tell the ravens to leave me alone—
Let me live my life in peace.
Proust once wrote: We think
We no longer love our dead
But that is because we do not remember them:
Suddenly we catch sight of an old glove
And burst into tears.
The ravens are gone. The wind has died.
Only the black dog and my shadow
Witness the tears, the shudder of the heart,
Halfway down the road, around the bend from home.