you came in and out at will

Crisp scent of white narcissus:
January, and full snow.
So cold the pipes freeze.
The front steps are slick and treacherous;
at night the house crackles.

You came in and out at will,
but this time of year you'd stay indoors,
plump in your undertaker's fur,
dreaming of sunlight,
dreaming of murdered sparrows,
black cat who's no longer there.

If you could find your way
from the river of chill flowers,
the forest of nothing to eat,
back through the ice window,
back through the locked door of air.

[Margaret Atwood {1939- } 'January' from The Door]