Trois-Pistoles Blues

Frosty hands, enveloped in froth, an impenetrable cloud that draws adverse reactions upon each introduction, reaches instead for a dulling pencil and immerses into a pleasurable sadness:

Pedals for fingers in her hands, a sympathetic smile acknowledging time,
Hunching over a wooden cross then moving from grave to grave distributing,
Until the end of her life with flowers enveloping her body, it taking twenty years for her cheeks to pale,
Fading into the land together and reappearing as a flower underneath a rotting cross.