Late she came. No badge to mark significance. Just another mother, lover, woman. An anyone. And anyone could be her name. Late she came and stayed when all around had disappeared beneath the semblance of a snowfall, an ashen depth of winter dealt untimely. Surreal. And nothing ever quite the same again. It was summer when the dust began and hurried, desperate in its efforts to find base. Surfaces all around, all those in favour, resigned themselves to its reception, gallons of a powder white but tainted, knell of death to those who breathed its subtle lace. Intricate it was, in how it hurried, in a slow descent of wishing where to rest, it flurried and it roasted where it met life, resurrecting even while it met its death. Late she came and swept and swept as always, swept for all the reasons people sweep. And, afterwards, when so much dust still rested, she swept again. And swept. No time to weep.