E Mail To Damniso Lopez 7

This white winter afternoon
The odor
Of what has been lost
Was part of the cold wind
Blowing through the red
Of winter cypress
To kiss my face.
The wind with its sad smell
Was muscular,
Hit my face
As if it were a fist.
The browned grasses
Were spotted
With small mound of dirt,
The color of ashes,
The home of the happy ants.
The ash-colored ground
Looked as if were
The ashes of a saint
Burned at a stake for apostasy.
I had lost her,
She would not
Let herself be found.
I go into a heated room,
But the sense of loss
Keeps its chilly scent on my skin.