For a small while snow flew by outside
And while I watched, I realized how easy
It is for me, now that I’m dead, to cry.
Almost anything can make me tear up,
From the thought of my distanced child
To the sound of wind dying on the windows.
We dead who live are not, are not
The same as those who sleep, are not
The same as those we used to be, are not
The resurrected, are more like refugees.
When the snow stopped falling, it was gone
And there was only moonlight on the lawn.
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