I wonder at my tolerance for snow
that stopped your heart and never felt remorse.
Your resurrection means I cannot go
outside to jump in drifts until I'm hoarse
and gasping from the cold, with sodden socks.
While you, inside, an Argus through the panes,
could laugh and wave if I looked up, or knock
to catch my ear. If snow again campaigns
for murder, we'll abandon it for Greece
though I despise the sun and loathe the sand.
I know the heroes' fame, but Jason's fleece
is just a myth, as is the life I'd planned
before your brief demise made ice obscene
and waiting your next death became routine.