The door of winter
is frozen shut,

and like the bodies
of long extinct animals, cars

lie abandoned wherever
the cold road has taken them.

How ceremonious snow is,
with what quiet severity

it turns even death to a formal
arrangement.

Alone at my window, I listen
to the wind,

to the small leaves clicking
in their coffins of ice.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Linda Pastan's poem Wind Chill

1 Comment

  1. brittany venne says:

    this poem is a great one

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