A man stands in a ring of stones, surrounded by snow, and burns the used tissues from a cold. It's a humble, almost comic chore, but the poem treats it with unexpected tenderness. The speaker seems calm and attentive, more curious than bothered, watching the small fire do its work.
The details pull in two directions. Snow lies all around, yet the sun beats down, and the twigs and leaves are "melting themselves into form-fitting graves." That odd phrase makes the burning feel like a quiet burial, with everything settling neatly into its own shape. Then the last image lifts away: a flat piece of ash rises and hangs in the air "like a famous last word."
The mood is still, wry, and a little solemn. The poem suggests that even something as ordinary as getting over a cold can carry a faint sense of endings, of illness and clutter turning into something light enough to float off.