In just three short lines, Dave Bonta gives us a burial. The speaker says "we," so they are one of a group of mourners, and the person being laid in the ground is a "her" we never learn more about. All we know is that she is dressed in her fine clothes, a small detail that feels tender. Someone chose those clothes with care, as if she were going somewhere special, or as if dignity were the last thing the living could still give her.
The final image does most of the work. Rain "doting on the ice" is a strange, lovely phrase. To dote is to fuss over something with affection, so the rain seems to treat the cold, hard ice the way the mourners treat her. Nature mirrors their gentleness, but the ice is still ice, and nothing softens it.
The speaker never says "I'm sad." The restraint, the quiet tone, and the wintry setting create a mood of hushed grief, tenderness held in check by cold.