A Winter Tragedy

The lot was slicker than a soapy floor,
but there were twenty steps between the car
and safety of her cozy house’s door.
It’s not as if she’d wandered very far,
yet ice had paralyzed the streets and town
and put the neighborhood to early bed,
so no one saw or heard her falling down.
The light of morning found her frozen dead
a dozen feet from being snug and warm
beside the fire that lit her living room
and reading news about the winter storm
instead of growing numb in snowy gloom.
It must’ve seemed surreal, a dream untrue,
to die in front of home at thirty-two.

Paul Burgess

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Paul Burgess  would like to hear them