The only difference now is that the trees are covered in ice. One by one the branches seal themselves off, disappearing into their darkened rooms. Soon the foliage around our house is made of mirrors. Perhaps that's what invited sadness into the yard to begin with. You noticed the flowers looking not quite "morning," not quite "yellow." Still I stutter & try to name them. The naturalist's Latin dead weight on my tongue.
A frozen bird, a branch snapped in two. Bonjour tristesse, I say to the meadow. But the landscape no longer remembers me.