Who

You read about it in the paper that morning, now you see it everywhere you go. 

The windows are tinted, the puddles are portals, for that face still sends ripples down spine and below.

It calls out in winds that the clouds couldn't touch, in songs with no words and no notes.

You try to reach out, but distance is the brush to that fast-failing portrait, a courtyard of snow.

A garden of fences that used to be gates slides past the stone visage the cold recreates.