On a vast and barren steppe
greeted frolicsome The Ringer
her as she took her last step
dragging the depths of a winter:
sunken eyes like sleepy suns,
memories like dancing leaves
in her hurricane of thoughts,
deep wrinkles like youth’s thieves…
On three legs her pace would slow,
the clock hands tangled her hair
—day by day turned into snow—.
Rest became her only prayer!
Her dear children, born in spring,
she left on her flight to the ether,
and a forlorn wedding ring,
and a cold winter beneath her.