You astound me here
on the lawn of the Historical Society
this snowy January morning.
You don’t belong here,
invader of gardens,
bearer of disease.
Ah, but the narcotic
of your delicate grace –
I long to know your secrets.
Your encounter with the town
ends badly for you.
Now in summer
you lie by the roadside,
even in death
the form of a goddess.
– Dorothy Schiff Shannon
