The flowers in the title are the poem's first puzzle, because they never appear in the poem itself. Someone throws cheap shop-bought flowers off a windowsill, a small, abrupt act of refusing a bit of brightness, and then the poem turns away from the room and looks at the weather. Judging by that gap, the title holds the action and the lines hold the feeling that comes after. The subtitle, «the wind», is where the poem begins, as if the thrown flowers had been carried out into the weather.
That opening is deliberately plain. "The wind blows through the air / The sun shines in the sky" reads like a child's nature diary, with statements so obvious they are almost empty. There is no rhyme ("air" and "sky" don't answer each other) and no steady beat. The short lines simply follow one another like a list. Within four lines the seasons have turned: leaves "brown and fall," then "Soon it starts to snow," then "It turns white." The "it" is slippery. It may be the snow, or the whole landscape, and the whiteness feels like a page being wiped.
The middle of the poem is its strangest stretch. "The first footstep / The last footstep" leaves out everything between, so a whole walk, or perhaps a whole stretch of life, is squeezed into two lines. Then comes "The snow angel / My heart." There is no verb joining them, so the reader has to build the link. A snow angel is the outline of a body left behind after the body has moved, a shape that proves someone was there and is easily covered by the next snowfall. Placing the heart beside it suggests something emptied out and fragile. The line is repeated, with "angle" for "angel" the second time. That is probably a slip, but the repetition makes the poem stall, like a thought the speaker can't get past. When it moves on, it gives its only plain explanation: "My heart broken, not keeping me warm." The heart should be a source of warmth, and here it fails at that job.
From there the language shrinks in step with the speaker. "Its getting colder and darker / Im getting smaller" uses the same "getting" construction for the world and the self, so the two decline together. Then the "Im" lines tighten like a ratchet: "Im not seen / Im invisible / Im dissapearing." Each step is more final than the last, moving from being overlooked to vanishing. The missing apostrophes in "Im," "Its" and "dont" may not be deliberate, but they make the poem look hurried and unpolished, as though typed without stopping to fix anything. That suits a voice with no energy for neatness. The same goes for the lowercase "i" in the last line, where the pronoun itself seems to shrink.
The ending is the poem's real centre: "I dont want to / But i dont decide that." The word "that" is left unspecified, and the poem never explains it, which makes it more unsettling. What matters is the admission of powerlessness. By mapping the speaker onto the seasons, the poem makes disappearing feel like weather, something that happens to you rather than something you choose. Nature really is that way, since nobody votes on winter.
That is also where the title becomes poignant. It begins with "I threw," a decisive verb with the speaker as the one acting. The poem ends with "I dont decide." Between those two statements, the speaker's sense of control drains away. The grammar tracks this too. The poem opens with "The wind," "The sun," "The leaves," and ends with "Im," "Im," "Im," as the focus moves from outside to inside.
The poem's significance lies in this restraint. It uses no elaborate metaphors, only a few ordinary winter images and very short lines, and it still conveys what it feels like to be unseen. It also shows that a poem can be effective while sounding like someone talking quietly to themselves.