The wind is a bellows
blowing off first my scarf then my hat.
My head is altogether naked.
Cold.
I make my way up the path,
past the willow trees leaning
alongside the lake as if at rest.

I imagine their roots
clinging to the earth, weeping
desperate.
I am reminded of
when you said,
"A bit clingy ahn't we dahling?"
in that cursed Brahmin dialect—
so unbecoming to one so ill bred.

And I, with nothing else
but you,
held fast just the same
to what we could have been
and then I too
weep.