World Gone White

Crossed by crows
the world’s gone white.
Where are the ones we miss?
I dismiss cold ground,
my eyes caught
by armfuls of berries,
draped by a vine
thickly through branches
facing the kitchen
far up above the woods,
the wooded lot
running between housebacks.
In summer weeds climb
stories high
clinging to stone and screen;
the building’s overgrown.
But now it’s bare and cold
and touched by snow,
like my mother’s grave
six months old.