She licks her finger and dampens her eyenTo make people think she is cryingnFor all around her are tear-sorrowed facesnBut she is too young to know dyingnnnOutside the window tree branches sway downnLong glassy fingers sweep snow-covered groundnWhile inside a woman is moaning softlynFor loss of a sonnnnShe sees black-ribboned white roses and hearsnA man with bowed head heavily sighingnThen bravely she turns her gaze back to the boxnWhere a broken young body is lyingnnnOutside the crystal icicles shine brightnCasting a prism, reflecting the lightnThat sends rainbows dancing across the brownOf a pastor in prayernnnShe touches her face to see if the mouth tearsnShe put on with her finger are dryingnThen her young attention is drawn back outsidenWhere she watches a small brown bird flyingnnnComing to land on the icy fence railnWith such a momentum it skids on its tailnAnd she laughs so loud and then quicklynClaps her small hand to her mouthnn