Past the Graveyard: Rondeau

Past the graveyard deep in snow where icicles from boughs hang low one woman at a headstone weeps as memories in warmth she keeps, all dressed in black like winter crows. Still muted angels' trumpets blow where frost on trees like lichens grow and 'cross the powder darkness creeps past the graveyard. As by the iron fence I go the granite gapes in pewter rows. My heart into my throat now leaps; her mortal love in silence sleeps in frozen ground while snowflakes blow past the graveyard. 11/14/17 This is a rewrite of my Terzanelle, "I Pass the Graveyard".