You drowned in the crisp, white snow
in February in Zürich,
white cotton in your auburn hair.
Against the birches,
I watched you sink
into the earth
by your magnetic boots,
and I brushed the snowflakes
from your nose.
You were warm enough,
nestled in your coat,
dressed in a smile
between your scarf and your hat.
I asked you if your glasses
frosted over on cold mornings,
and you just laughed.
Auf diese Weise
hätte alles einen Sinn ergeben.