'Snow' by Carol Ann Duffy

Then all the dead opened their cold palms and released the snow; slow, slant, silent, a huge unsaying, it fell, torn language; settled, the world to be locked, local; unseen, fervent earthbound bees around a queen. The river grimaced and was ice. Go nowhere- thought the dead, using the snow- but where you are, offering the flower of your breath to the white garden, or seeds to birds from your living hand. You cannot leave. Tighter and tighter, the beautiful snow holds the land in its fierce embrace. It is like death, but it is not death; lovelier. Cold, inconvenienced, late, what will you do now with the gift of your left life?