The poem
Memory of sun seeps from the heart. Grass grows yellower. Faintly if at all the early snowflakes Hover, hover.
Water becoming ice is slowing in The narrow channels. Nothing at all will happen here again, Will ever happen.
Against the sky the willow spreads a fan The silk's torn off. Maybe it's better I did not become Your wife.
Memory of sun seeps from the heart. What is it? -- Dark? Perhaps! Winter will have occupied us In the night.