In this little borrowed
wooden house in January,
down on the field-colored rug
I came across a cricket
close to death, or sleeping.
Not breathing, that I could see.
Out walking, I saw a skull of snow,
and a snow-frog listening.
Back in the house,
my cricket, your heart has stopped.
Would you like snow over you?
Or be in here together, by the hearth.
But now your body is fallen in pieces around you.
Help me find a leaf for you to lie on, another
to cover you.
—Jean Valentine (1934-2020)
