I had taken the word of the calendar
and slept, thinking winter was over.
       Morning came: the sky was gray,
       it had nothing to say;

the garden was hidden beneath a new drift,
still dead. I have lost something I loved,
       but what, and when,
       I have forgotten.

If I could remember, I could make an end:
let me remember. By afternoon
       the snow was gone, in wind,
       in untrustworthy sun.