Classic Poem

The wind has edges honed on frost;
But although the razor-thinned
Edges cut, the love I lost
Hurts more than any wind.

Time like a morbid tree
Shreds the last sick root and dies:
Time is dead for me;
Space cannot crowd my eyes.

Nothing matters much and much;
I must say, “Ah well and well,
There are certain things to touch,
Certain things to smell.”

So it goes and so and so. . . .
I will write myself a letter
Starting, “I am glad to know
You are feeling better.”