Salinger Died of the Winter Blues Today:
It is cold now and all that was once green is grey.
The weeping willow has let it last tear fall untill spring.
I wish I was like the tree
                             with winter to dry my eyes.
Yet now I cry like snow hitting the asphalt,
It melts yet leaves its trace,
                              footsteps in the snow.

And all the great poets and writers are dead.
When the seasons change
                              they will not return.
Is this why the willow weeps?